The Iconoclast War
by the mythologist
Summary: When an alien race's covert invasion/assassination spree decimates the Supercommunity; Batman, his boys, and other Justice League survivors must band together to defeat an unseen, invincible enemy. Rated M for explicit language, sexual scenes (both homo & hetero) violence, torture, unsettling themes, character death, character resurrection, and Green Arrow's unstoppable sass.
1. Prologue: What Came Before

**This is an elseworld type story. Large mythos apply, smaller details do not. Unless specifically stated (as in Jason Todd's case) no one has died/been brought back/etc. (Although I make no promises about in-story resurrections, so stick with me, here. Remember this when important people start dying. IN STORY RESURRECTIONS.)**

 **Very dark fic. There are going to be awesome moments, and funny ones too, but a lot of characters are going to die; about half of them by the time Chapter 1 rolls around. There will be redemption and general badassery for every character that survives though, and even for some of those who don't.**

 **Lastly, none of this was influenced by any modern TV shows or DC movies. This effort is entirely inspired by the video games** _ **Injustice**_ **and** _ **Arkham Asylum,**_ **(but not the rest of the Arkham series or even** _ **Injustice 2**_ **which I have not played yet) and a bit of what I remember from all the animated TV shows I watched, and comics I read growing up (so basically pre-New 52, although I'm borrowing certain more current elements).**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

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 **The Iconoclast War**

 **Arc 1: Invasion**

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 **I·con·o·clast**

a person who attacks cherished beliefs or institutions.

a destroyer of images used in religious worship, in particular.

Etymology: mid 17th century, via medieval Latin from ecclesiastical Greek _eikonoklastēs_ , from _**eikōn**_ **'likeness'** \+ _**klan**_ **'to break.'**

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 **Prologue: What Came Before**

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 **...**

 **March 19th, 20xx**

 **Metropolis**

Excerpt from the _Metro Tattler_ , sensationalist tabloid based out of Metropolis. 

**LUTHOR MAGNATE SINKS MILLIONS INTO PROTECTION PROGRAM**

The secret is out, ladies and gentlemen, and we're bring it to you first: billionaire Lex Luthor, Superman's on again off again rival, and metropolitan man about town has once again tried to one-up the Man of Steel in his bid to protect our planet . . . and this time, he may have done it.

According to government websites that have since been taken down (one screenshot pictured below) Luthor has channeled hundreds of millions of dollars over the past year into a shadowy National Defense program, that when asked directly by yours truly, no government official will acknowledge the existence of. The most even my best informed contacts will admit to is that, "There was a movement Luthor greatly attributed to, but it was most lamentably and unexpectedly cancelled prior to this telephone conversation."

That doesn't mean the project doesn't exist, however. Snippets from an overheard conversation at the recent charity gala thrown by the Committee for Distressed War Veterans seem to confirm our suspicions. Luthor was overheard by several when remarking to his 'date' for the evening, "It will all come together, John. Your fears and mine will be assuaged. Soon, Earth will be for humanity alone, and our people better protected than ever."

John's reply went unrecorded, but Luthor finished with, "Oh yes, the program had _better_ work, after all the money I've sunk into it!"

Luthor's partner for the evening was none other than decorated war hero John Stewart, whose recent philanthropic undertakings have attracted Luthor's attention and support. The two have been seen together quite often lately, causing the experienced reader to guess at another motive for their recent companionship. Whatever the reason, this new dynamic duo has the power and opportunity not only to turn heads at the charity ball, but also to reshape our country's defensive structure from the ground up. With Stewart's military contacts and Luthor's billions, our country's defense may finally be secured.

As to how this fits into Luthor's defining distrust of all alien lifeforms on Earth, sources close to Luthor report that he commonly boasts, "It is time humanity protects its own, and I am in the perfect position to enable our people!"

All _this_ humble reporter can conclude with is look out, Superman—Metropolis may have found a new hero!

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 **March 30th, 20xx**

 **Gotham**

Excerpt from _Gotham Citizen Patriot,_ a small, locally run news agency. 

**CAPED CRUSADER SCORES FULL HOUSE**

Last night was an exciting one to be a Gothamite as Batman finally brought the Joker's week-long shakedown to a close. The Joker's mad plan to take over the Old Town District resulted in a rising death toll that finally capped at 32, largely due to a collapsed warehouse that created a devastating domino effect, and a cloud of thick dust as deadly as any toxin, or poison vapour. As there is nothing Batman can do about the shoddy architecture of the Old Town District, his efforts are universally lauded in recapturing the insane clown and carting him back to Arkham Asylum.

This, on the heels of the infamous Selina Kyle, AKA Catwoman's recent recapture and the surprising court ruling to send her to Arkham when her stint in the hospital is over, makes for a rather full set at the Arkham "Funhouse." Now within its confines are the Joker and his lady, Harley Quinn; the Scarecrow, Poison Ivy, the Riddler, Dr. Fries, Victor Zsasz, the Mad Hatter, the Ventriloquist, Prometheus, Hush, Killer Croc, and Two Face, along with a cadre of lesser supervillains.

It's an intimidating line up, but not quite everyone is attending the party. The Penguin's losing battle with AIDS has ensured him a slow decline in an undisclosed hospice, while Bane, Batman's most physically powerful enemy, has remained quietly in hiding for over a year now.

Aaron Cash, longtime head of security for the asylum, was less than pleased when faced with the impending reunion. "It's a f***ing madhouse when they're all in here!" He exclaimed, all the while batting away recording equipment with the silver hook that replaced his missing hand. "Not that I want them to be free, but the point stands," he continued. "Half of these goons shouldn't be here anyway. Blackgate was made for a reason, you hear?"

The nearly complete Rogue's Gallery in Arkham makes for a twisted anniversary present for Dr. Joan Leland, a macabre celebration for her decade of working with Arkham's elite and criminally insane. As well as being one of the foremost psychologists in the field, she has also proven to be refreshingly incorruptible in an institution that fostered Dr. Jonathan Crane, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, and the Arkham family itself. This is no mean feat when one looks at her patient lineup, which reads like a who's who of Arkham: Poison Ivy, Two-Face, Harley Quinn, the Scarecrow, Mad Hatter, the Ventriloquist, and the Riddler.

Dr. Leland declined an interview, but we wish her all the best in the coming years. She'll need all the luck she can get when her life revolves around probing into the minds of Gotham's supervillains.

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...

 **April 19th, 20xx**

 **Coast City, 6:18 PM**

"Jeez, Hal. It's your last night here, and all you wanna do is sit on the couch?"

From his spot on his old, lumpy couch, Hal Jordan craned his neck back and admitted, "And I'm having a great time. Now quit charging around my living room and hang out with me."

Barry Allen rounded the couch and his Justice League cell phone flashed from hand to pocket so quickly that all Hal could see was a dark grey blur. What was easier to catch was Barry's frown, and those things combined told him all he needed to know: the source of Barry's poor mood had nothing to do with him. No, it was all because of Shayera and that being so, Hal wasn't going to say a blessed word about it.

(It wasn't like he hadn't already tried, for chrissake. He'd _told_ Barry that asking Shayera out on a date was a bad idea; everyone _knew_ about her histories with Hawkman. Everyone but Barry also seemed to know about her somewhat more present interest in John Stewart, but that was a can of worms Hal refused to open. The point was, there were plenty of other hot, sassy ladies out there; Barry just had to find one that wasn't tied down to several thousand years of reincarnation for the sake of true love. Or, you know, another Green Lantern.

But did Barry listen to him? Of course not. Barry asked her out, Shayera turned him down, and that led to a solid week of moping around Hal's apartment. He'd had to renew his old subscription to Netflix just so that Barry could feed his romantic comedy addiction, and not do something worse like cry on Hal's shoulder. Not that he wouldn't provide said shoulder if it was needed, of course. Barry was his first super friend, arguable best friend ever, and was always down to watch said rom coms with Carol, thus freeing Hal for more manly pursuits.

Bottom line was this: Hal loved the guy; he really, truly, did. But honestly, would it kill Barry to listen to him, just once?

Hal thought no, but clearly no one listened to him, anyway.)

Barry flopped down on the couch next to him, giving him moody little side glances. When Hal didn't rise to the bait, he settled for sulking and tapping at his phone screen too quickly for human eyes to make out.

Ignoring Barry's mood was slightly easier to do when Ollie was there, making a fool of himself as he was prone to do. "Hal, what the hell is wrong with your TV?" The archer asked, frowning at Hal's second hand TV from about six inches away. "Where are all the channels?"

Ollie's thumb jabbed ineffectually at the remote, and Hal resigned himself to being ribbed for the next few minutes. He didn't have cable or HBO or actually, any channels at all, and if Ollie wasn't set on being a giant dick he would remember how taxing and off-world a Green Lantern's lifestyle was, and leave him alone about it.

Yet an Ollie who wasn't being at least a medium-sized dick was not their Ollie.

"Don't tell me you don't have service," Ollie, the dick of varying size continued. "What are you, 22? You can't just watch _Netflix_ all the time . . ."

Hal grimaced. It wasn't even _him_ who was watching it. Between Carol and her documentaries and Barry and his rom coms, he hadn't had control of his TV for the past two months.

Ollie's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Oh god, you do. You awkward tween. This is why Carol won't marry you. I have solved the mystery, Hal. I will accept thanks by way of back massages, and by forcing HBO upon you."

Hal laughed dryly before glancing over at Barry. It was too late for Bar to jump to his defense, but he wondered if he would take offense at the jab to his beloved Netflix. Barry hadn't caught a word a word, however. He had chosen instead to thumb through old text messages, his pout growing in magnitude with every text he re-read. Were Ollie paying attention to anything other than Hal's netflix queue, he would have jumped on this awkwardness in a heartbeat and then Hal would have to scramble to keep him from catching wind of Barry's recent heartbreak. Seeing as Ollie was thick-skinned about his own matters of the heart (let alone everyone else's), he'd give Barry a hard time, and then the trip to the bar would be uncomfortably frigid.

He was not adverse to Ollie being insensitive after he was off-world, however. Then, it would detract from Hal's own dickery, and maybe even redirect Barry's anger when he found out that Hal not only knew that Shayera would turn him down (because of her fairly obvious infatuation with John Stewart, come _on)_ but also what she was doing on her current mission, which was the other part of why she was avoiding everyone. When that came out, Hal's ass was grass, and Barry would be slipping on his cleats.

Still, until Hal was off-world he wanted to keep them all smiling. Ollie and Barry were his best friends, no matter how embarrassing that was to admit at his age, and deep down he knew they weren't always so fond of each other. Most days, Hal focused on being grateful that he was both of their best friends, rather than longing for an equal triumvirate. How they both liked _him_ , who was a prickly son of a preacher man at the best of times was a mystery, but he would take what he could get.

Great, now he was getting sentimental. Extended trips off-world tended to do that to him, but at least this time he'd have some Justice League colleagues along for the ride. Still, he had to buck up before they left for Oa, otherwise this last night with Carol was going to be brutal. He loved the woman something fierce, but damn if she couldn't tear him down faster than Barry could run a mile. He didn't want his last memories of her to be tinged with humiliation, not when she was as disappointed with him as she already was . . .

"Silence isn't going to save you, Hal," Ollie said, bringing him out of his thoughts. "Neither is ignoring me. My revenge shall be rearranging your Netflix queue while you're gone to reflect your heretofore unsuspected love of My Little Pony, and then—"

"Hey guys, have either of you heard from Shayera recently?" It said something about their friendship that their banter was background noise to Barry. My Little Pony threats no longer intrigued him.

"Your winged not-girlfriend?" Ollie snarked. "Can't say I have. Dinah would kill me."

Hal winced. Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time in the most flippant manner possible was like a special, inborn gift that Ollie possessed. At times it could be even more devastating than his aim.

"Let's not call her that, please," Barry said, his mouth thinned down to a line.

It was time, once again, for the Green Lantern to save the day. "Yeah, no talking sass about my second girlfriend," he said, throwing Barry a quick wink before Ollie whipped his head around, his eyes wide. "And yes," he continued, in a deadpan voice. "Carol knows all about it. She's on board, if you know what I mean."

Ollie blinked, processing this fallacious information. Carol's possessiveness was legendary, and Hal, for all his faults, was monogamous. Ollie was smart enough to know that if Hal was standing up for Barry now, he'd be stonewalled later on. Still prepared to push his luck, apparently, he opened his mouth to unleash some no doubt witty and devastating quip about moving on and literally flighty women, but Hal nipped that in the bud by clearing his throat and giving him a meaningful look.

Ollie settled for, "Anything I could say would eventually direct either Dinah or Hal's wrath upon me, _apparently,_ so I will stick with no. No, I have not. Not for several months, to be honest."

Barry nodded before glancing over at Hal, who was still glaring at Ollie. Ollie stuck out his tongue when Hal's expression made Barry frown.

"Are you guys 5?" Barry asked. "Did I miss something?"  
Hal offered up a grin. Here was an opportunity to let Barry down gently, or at least show that Hal had tried to let him in on the classified information. God, being a superhero was hard. Why wasn't he still flying planes for Ferris Aircraft?

"Shayera's taking some time off, Bar," Hal said. "Her last mission went a little longer than we expected, and she asked for some me-time down in the tropics. At least, that's what I heard."

That was the cover stories prepared by Clark, who, as a journalist and the goddamn Superman, was unsurprisingly good at them. If either Barry or Ollie became suspicious, Bruce had offered up an addendum to get them off the scent: that Shayera had done so in hopes that a little time away from the Justice League might enable some of the other members to clear their heads without hurting them too badly. Clark, who had known absolute jack about Barry's interest in Shayera, had only nodded in confusion. Hal had no trouble working _that_ little addendum out, and neither would Ollie.

While Ol watched the proceedings with the avid interest of a tabloid journalist, Barry was giving him that look that Hal swore he'd picked up from Bruce—that probing stare that pretty much announced _I don't believe you_ , _you Kentucky Fried Jackass._ Except in Barry's case, it was more like _there's more to this, don't think I don't know it, buddy._ Much less sheer and blatant hatred in his, if the same amount of disbelief.

(Hal and Bruce didn't really get along. Nor could Hal imagine Bruce saying the word buddy. It was just too weird.)

Time for deflection. "I only found out a couple days ago, Bar. Didn't have a lot of time to talk, with the upcoming mission. You know how it is."

His mission this time would take him off-world for at least a couple months. Even with years of practice, it took more time than one would think to quit a temp job, wrap up all loose ends, and go about the destructive normalcy of uprooting himself once again. It was also why he had made such a concerted effort to have one last night out with his closest friends. Clark and J'onn were cool and all, and he was glad they'd be helping the Green Lantern Corps out on the mission, but they weren't Bar and Ol, no matter how much his human friends might drive him up the wall.

Barry nodded slowly, the moment stretching on uncomfortably until Ollie turned off the TV and pulled them up off the couch, linking his arms through theirs and tugging them close together. Not for the first time, Hal entertained the possibility of Ollie actually being a 13-year-old girl trapped in the body of a dirty old man.

"Well, this is fun," Ollie noticed. "And awkward. I bet it's going to get better though, as the night goes on. When we all have a beer or thirty inside of us, illuminating, too!"

Hal rolled his eyes, aware that Barry was once again _staring at his phone_. Annoyed, he shrugged out of Ollie's death grip and snagged his coat and keys.

"Let's get going, guys," he said. "Carol's going to leave me for sure if I don't see her before I go this time . . . "

It took 2 hours, 15 beers—12 consumed by Barry and far too quickly for human eyes to see—and a chance run-in with some of Barry's co-workers from the lab for Ollie to get the chance to pump Hal for the dirt. With the exception of Barry's co-workers, Hal wasn't all that surprised at how the evening unfolded. Ollie was, as he had already pointed out, a little gossiping girl who was bound and determined to pry into the personal lives of the super community. How Dinah put up with it Hal would never know. All he could be grateful for was that Barry wasn't around for Ollie to assuage his curiosity on firsthand.

"So, are you going to voluntarily tell me about Barry's little thing for Shayera, or am I going to have to embarrass you into spilling?" Ollie asked, leaning back against the high-backed chair. Droplets of beer foam clung to his mustache. "Because I am fine with either option. In all honesty, I prefer the second."

Hal rolled his eyes as he glanced over at the bar, making sure Barry was still deep in conversation. "It's over and done with, Ol. Nothing happened. It was just Barry being . . . Barry." He took a long pull of his lager, memorizing the taste and softness of the foam for when he'd be out in space. It was the little things you clung to, he'd learned. "Besides, it's really not our place to judge him."

Ollie settled his beer down on the cheap coaster, revealing his upbringing was far classier than Hal's, who put his beer down wherever there was rom. The archer's fingers drummed against the tabletop as he said, "Us? Judge _him?_ Hal, buddy, in case you hadn't realized, Barry's the one who should be judging us. I mean, what with you refusing to settle down with Carol-"

"Oh, so now _I'm_ refusing Carol? Earlier you said—"

Ollie waved him off. "Ignore the man behind the curtain, Dorothy. _As I was saying,_ you refuse her with your, 'I'm a Green Lantern and have to save all the worlds' lifestyle,' and Dinah refuses to succumb to my manly overtures and marry the hell out of me already." Ollie pointed upwards, as if driving the point home. "Barry, for all his awkward, homey charm, is clearly the best of us, because if Iris hadn't died—"

Ollie cut off suddenly, glancing back at Barry who was still in the middle of polite conversation with the taller of the two co-workers. His name was . . . Henry? Harry? Hector? Hal had met him once, briefly, yet all he could remember was that his name was something with an H and wasn't Harold.

(Hal also knew he really, really didn't like him. H-Something was one of those guys who just _had_ to be friends with everyone, and Hal did not feel like sharing Barry with some moron who tried to bond with him over watching The Bachelorette.

Barry didn't _really_ like the show, he was just being polite. Or so Hal fervently hoped.)

"He can't hear you, Ol. It's too loud in here," Hal spoke quietly, just in case. They weren't superheroes for no good reason. "And thanks for not bringing this up when he was here."

Ollie had been nursing the same pint of beer for the last 20 minutes, and it had no doubt gone warm, but he made no move to drink it. "I'm not _heartless,_ Hal. Iris was a wonderful woman, and her passing was hard for all of us. Worst for him, yeah, but bad for us too, because we all saw how destroyed he was afterward . . ."

Hal hummed and took another drink, reflecting. Iris West had died nearly a year ago, after a battling tongue cancer for ten months. She had been diagnosed only two months after Barry had proposed, and by then it was far too late to save her. No one liked to remember her decline, especially those who were close to Barry as _Barry_ , and not just the Flash.

Hal, who had never wanted a reason not to, had visited Iris in the hospital with and without Barry all throughout her convalescence. He had watched her as she wilted, body failing even as her spirit refused to dim. The last time he had seen her was when he went alone on a night where Barry had to patrol his city, only a week before she had died. She was rail thin, skin drooping from the chemo, scarf wrapped around her bald head. Yet her eyes had burned like stars, nearly as green as the manifestation of his ring's power. Her grip was strong as he held her hand, and she had made him swear . . .

" _Promise me, Harold Jordan," she had forced out past the tongue lying thick and awkward in her mouth. "You promise me that you'll look after him. That you'll fix him. That you won't let him be alone."_

Hal closed his eyes against the rest of the memory, draining the bottle, tipping it up to avoid Ollie's stare.

"I'm surprised you haven't said anything to me yet. You're pretty overdue, friend."

Maybe he'd overestimated his level of sobriety, as Ollie's statement seemed pretty apropos of nothing. Hal raised his eyebrows in lieu of answering.

Ollie scoffed. "Oh, come on. You're heading out for God knows how long, and you haven't even asked me to watch out for our little speedster? I'm hurt, Jordan. Cut to the quick."

Ah, so that was it. He grinned and kept his tone light. "Nah, but I had a talk with him earlier about keeping an eye on you. Who knows? Maybe he could give you some pointers on landing a woman while he's at it."

"Very funny, Hal," Ollie sniffed. "I already know a way to a woman's heart. _Jewelry._ Oh wait— that's just the way to yours."

Neither man had noticed Barry making his way back to their corner of the bar. "Now now, Ollie, Hal's already got a pretty fancy ring," he said, clapping Hal on the shoulder and making both men jump. "You're going to have to lay down a damn fine rock to get him to choose yours."

Hal leaned back and laughed as Ollie sputtered, more out of surprise than consternation. Without question he knew that _this_ was the moment he'd take back with him to examine and remember and relive when things got lonely out there, saving worlds other than his own. Just the three of them, drinking and talking and laughing like they were nothing but normal men.

At times like these, his life seemed pretty damn good.

...

...

...

 **April 19th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 9:27 PM**

Meanwhile, back at the Batcave, a very different brand of goodbye was taking place.

"You'll update the Watchtower's archives with word on everyone, right?"

"I always do."

"And you won't forget to recalibrate the security codes?"

"Already did."

"And try not to be _too_ obvious about monitoring Kara and Kon in Metropolis, ok?"

"Is that something you really need to ask? _"_

"And could you check in with Lois and Jimmy, from time to time?"

" _Yes_ ," Bruce Wayne drawled, in his bored socialite voice. "But if you ask me any more questions, I'm going to steal both your girlfriend and your lackey, and with their help, Metropolis."

Clark Kent smiled fondly. The next couple of months wouldn't be the same without his best friend. He could never rile up J'onn or Hal the way he could Bruce. "I know, I know. Just being careful."

Bruce may or may not have murmured something along the lines of _damned conscientious Midwesterners_ , but Clark let it go. Batman was going to have a tougher time of it until they got back, with several of the hardest hitters in the League gone for an extended mission, but the Green Lantern Corps almost never involved non-members into their business until it was nearly too late. Whatever danger had risen in the Oan's quadrant of the galaxy, Clark and J'onn were more than happy to help resolve it before it reached Earth.

Even if it meant leaving Bruce holding down the metaphorical cover on the boiling pot. It wasn't even Bruce's pot in the first place. It was Clark's longtime enemy, Lex Luthor, who was up to something, although only the tabloid writers were willing to place a guess as to what. Batman, Oracle and Cyborg had spent collective weeks pouring through every encrypted file and snippet of communique they could get their hands on, to not avail.

They had no idea what Luthor was planning, and there was little evidence pointing to any plan at all. But Clark was a damned good journalist, who knew if even the tabloid journalists were watching Luthor, there had to be _something_ to watch. No matter how carefully the man covered his tracks he would leave something behind. Bruce, who wasn't the World's Greatest Detective for nothing, would uncover it.

All this was in addition to Batman's own issues. Bane's conspicuous absence when Gotham lay largely emptied of its villains and was in the perfect position for plucking; Selina Kyle's incarceration in _Arkham,_ rather than Blackgate, and even the odd behaviour of Jason Todd: his second foster son, Robin, and current Red Hood. As far as they could tell he hadn't killed in almost a year, and it took someone like Bruce to worry that something like that could mean something sinister.

There were other things too, like Dick's decision to bequeath Bludhaven to Tim so that he could move back to Gotham, and Shayera Hall's persistence in being sent undercover . . . although that last wasn't such a concern to Bruce. He had only rolled his eyes and muttered something about League romances after she left. Clearly, Clark was missing something here, and when he got back he was getting to the bottom of that.

He knew from long experience that Bruce would only talk about the bare minimum, however, so for all his laundry list of concerns he focused on that which concerned Metropolis. "Seriously though, any word from John? It's not like him to go this long without sending word, even if Luthor's running him _self_ ragged."

That garnered an actual response. Bruce looked away from the console, frowning. The artificial light in the cave played shadows across his face, and for a moment, he looked every minute of his age. "That is worrying me," he admitted. "It's been three days since our last conversation. If I don't hear back from him by tomorrow, I will assume his cover's been compromised. Tim and Barbara have been tracking him to ensure his physical safety, but—"

When Clark was agitated, he liked to feel the ground underneath his feet. He came down rather suddenly, and Bruce cut off, watchful.

"You can't honestly think _John Stewart_ has chosen to defect, can you?" Clark argued.

Bruce's eyebrows rose. "It's a possibility I have to consider. Have you forgotten who you're talking to?" And then, because Clark was beginning to pace, "I'm not saying that's what I _want_ to have happened, Clark. Nor that it's what I think. Just that it's a possibility. We can't underestimate Luthor. If he's done something to control John, or knows we're onto him . . ."

Clark sighed in a heaving rush. "No, no. I know what you mean. You have to be ready for any contingency. Sorry, Bruce, I'm just a little distracted."

He settled back in his chair, and not for the first time Clark was struck by the incongruity of his _not_ wearing the Batsuit while down in the Cave, talking to him on League business. It spoke volumes as to Bruce's trust in him, allowing him to experience both sides of the veil, but there was Batman mode and there was Bruce Wayne mode, and it was an odd thing to see the lines blur.

"Clark, you're doing that thing where you worry too much about others when you should be worrying more about yourself. The Lanterns pulled no punches when they called for help. Leave worrying about Earth to the League. Focus on your mission." Bruce smirked to lighten the sentiment. "I don't want to go haring off after you when you need _my_ help, after all."

Clark managed a grin. Bruce was exactly right about his tendency to worry, yet knowing that didn't mean he was going to stop. Nor would arguing avail him at all, particularly when he had people to say goodbye to before he left in the morning. He glanced back at the hidden exit, wondering how to politely mention that Diana and Arthur were waiting for him —and after that, Lois—when Bruce surprised him. He turned back to see him standing in front of him, wry smile on his lips, arms outstretched.

Clark laughed. He really _was_ in Bruce Wayne mode—but then again, Bruce was minutes away from leaving to attend some sort of gala, or ball, wasn't he? Clark stepped into the hug, holding it for just a moment before they both stepped back.

"Give my best to your boys, you hear?"

"Oh stop being so damned Midwestern. You'll see them when you get back."

Clark laughed and turned to go, hovering several feet off the ground. "Hold down the fort, Bruce. I'll be back as soon as I can."

His last memory of his best friend was of him standing there, and his poor attempt at a joke. "The world will still be standing when you get back, Clark. This I promise you."

...

...

...

 **June 17th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 6:47 PM**

Father and son wore identical frowns as they replayed the audio file one final time. Nothing had changed: the same garbled message, the same indecipherable language. Bruce had run it through the Watchtower's database countless times last night, yet the sounds on the file correlated to no known language in the galaxy, or at least any of those spoken by civilized, space-traveling species.

If it hadn't been sent by Talia al Ghul, Bruce may have chalked it up to an odd Lantern prank, sent it to be relayed out of the Watchtower to the League members in space, and moved on.

Damian Wayne shifted next to him, uncrossing his arms. "I don't understand, Father. It's not a language I know, nor is that Mother's voice on any frequency. What purpose does she have in sending it to you?"

"A warning, perhaps?" Bruce spoke quietly, his tone was guarded. Whether it was a warning _to_ him or _for_ him he did not specify, wanting to hear his son's insight.

Damian restarted the file, listening closely. Bruce was struck by the intensity of his gaze, and how he had grown. It had been five years since Damian had thrust his way into their lives, taking no prisoners on his quest to become Robin. Now that he was 15, he was a physical powerhouse, and of all his 'brothers,' he resembled Jason the most. They were both bigger and broader than Dick, who stood at 5'9" in shoes, and Tim, who, even with his intense physical training, still tended to the willowy.

There was a part of Bruce that saw his youngest boy as the demanding 10-year-old he had once been, and it always caught him by surprise to see him maturing. Someday, he would be as old as Tim currently was, then Jason, and then Dick. Someday, he'd be a man, fully grown. What sort of legacy would Damian leave behind, following in the shadows of his three older 'brothers?' What sort of future would he shape when he followed _Batman's_ shadow?

Damian let out a little puff of air, and he managed to infuse an otherwise innocuous sound with annoyance. "I'm more concerned about the suddenness of it. Mother hasn't contacted me in years, and what little contact she's had with you isn't what anyone might term cordial. Sending this so unexpectedly is a bad sign, Father."

Bruce grunted. Five years ago, he would have agreed with Damian, knowing Talia's devious nature. Her silence over the past year and a half made him wonder otherwise. Talia was not a woman who baited her prey like Ra's was wont to do. She came in and conquered, much like Damian still did. If she meant to keep them on their toes with this mysterious recording, she had succeeded. Sending it now hindered her from acting on it later, however, and he wasn't sure what she could do with it, anyway.

Damian's little huff of amusement caught his attention. "Perhaps she's developed a whole new crop of clones and made up a whole new language for them." His lips curved into a smile that was anything but pleasant. "Just another test for the two men she hates to love."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. While true, that last sentiment certainly didn't sound like _Damian._ Far too flippant and bitter. If he didn't know better, he could have imagined someone else saying it far more easily. Perhaps he'd heard someone say something similar, before? His mind cast about and fell on glass showcases and little green pixie boots, and then he had it.

He eyed his son speculatively. "Has Jason been hanging around the Manor again?"

Damian scowled, and for a moment all Bruce could see was an aggrieved teenager. "You really must spend more time at home, Father. Then Todd wouldn't be skulking about, bothering Grayson and Drake . . . and more importantly, _me._ I've had words with Alfred about feeding strays, but the man refuses to listen. Someday, I'm going to take matters into my own hands. He really is too aggravating to be borne."

Bruce's face shuttered so that his thoughts would remain his own. The idea of Jason coming home and interacting with his brothers was simultaneously wonderful and terrifying, and he had never been good with complex feelings. On the one hand, it had broken his heart to lose Jason, and then subsequently lose him more every night he roamed Gotham as the Red Hood. Yet when they were Red Hood and Batman, Bruce knew how to deal with him, no matter how painful it was. If Jason was now changing for the better or worse, Bruce would have to go through the difficult process of relearning their relationship all over again.

Perhaps he was overthinking this, however. After the years of holding himself apart since his rising and rebirth through the Lazarus Pit, it seemed that Jason had mastered enough of his rage to muscle through semi-antagonistic relationships with his brothers. That, at least, was good. Even if Damian seemed a bit more put out about it than he'd have expected.

"Damian," he scolded him. "Neither Jason nor Alfred would appreciate what you have in mind for them. May I remind you that angering Alfred is not wise, as he is the only one who knows how to cook all your favorite meals."

 _Or cook at all,_ he allowed. _I certainly can't._

 _"_ Father, I was _not_ referring to Alfred. I was talking about _Todd,_ who swaggers through the Manor like he owns it, and walks around half naked at the oddest times, sits the wrong way on all the furniture, cheated during our last spar, and . . ."

Damian continued, grievances fluctuating in levels of importance. Bruce was suddenly struck by a sense of displacement. Damian and Jason were sparring? What was he thinking—of course Damian and Jason would be sparring! They had learned from both he and Talia at opposite ends, and due to that and their builds, their hand-to-hand fighting styles had grown to be incredibly similar. If Jason had spent enough time in the Manor to do that, he was probably sparring with Tim and Dick as well, even though they didn't spend nearly as much time there, splitting their efforts between Gotham and Bludhaven. Were that was the case, that meant Dick and Tim must trust Jason _enough_ , if not as much as Damian seemed to.

If all that held true, then didn't it follow that maybe, just maybe, it was time for Bruce to start trusting Jason as well?

" . . . I just told you that Drake dances around the house wearing Brown's red sequined dress and you didn't even bat an eyelash. You're not listening, Father. Should I garner your attention with a few well-aimed shurikens?"

Bruce recovered quickly. "Perhaps I'm merely surprised that you're that acquainted with Miss Brown's wardrobe. Does _she_ know that you remember that particular garment so fondly?"

Damian's moment of wide-eyed mortification was fleeting yet immensely gratifying. Bruce swallowed back his smile. Dick had always been, and would always be, impossible to embarrass, and Jason had been worryingly precocious for his age around the opposite sex. Tim had either shown no interest in anyone at all or was dating Stephanie, and by then Bruce had hardly been in the state of mind to tease him about it anyway. It was left to Damian to bear the brunt of Bruce's underdeveloped sense of humor, and his was in the unique position of being totally incapable of dealing with it.

Damian regained his cool, yet the tips of his ears were tinged red. "You are not amusing, Father. Now, if that is all you need, I will retire. I have a pathetic excuse for a paper to write and a fox to bait." He glanced over at the console one more time and his expression hardened. "As for the recording . . . you haven't heard from Grandfather, lately, have you?"

Bruce's aggressive silence was answer enough. Damian swallowed, aware that he had potentially stumbled onto a landmine. Ra's al Ghul had driven deep splinters into Bruce's family, and even though they were at a temporary detente, Bruce feared he had the power to break them apart entirely. If Ra's had sent the audio, then it would be no warning. It would be a mockery; a poisoned dagger to twist into just an inch of flesh.

Either way, the danger was real. He would send a copy to the Watchtower and have J'onn and Clark listen to it firsthand before they returned. If he was lucky, perhaps they could get an Oan or two to listen as well.

For now . . ."Thank you for your help. I'll see what I can do about spending more time at the Manor. It may be time for Jason and I to have another talk."

Damian's face broadcasted excitement, even though he tried to mask it. Judging by his son's stoic upbringing, showing this strong an emotion was clearly something he had picked up from Dick. When had his youngest son grown to reflect his brothers? And what might he reflect from the other two?

"A conversation? Words or fists? May I watch?" And then, after a moment, "If he displeases you, may I kill him?"

" _Damian."_

His face wiped clear, mirroring Bruce's impassivity. He nodded before turning to go but Bruce impulsively laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Tell Alfred we should watch a movie after dinner. See if he and your brothers would like to join us."

Damian's eyes narrowed. "We're not going to watch one of Grayson or Drake's movies, are we?"

Dick thought the _world_ needed more Disney, while Tim's favorite movie was _Run Lola Run._ Bruce clenched his jaw at the thought of sitting through either option. "I was thinking we could try something new. Something relaxing. Something where no one dies, for once. What do you think?"

Damian would say yes, that was clear as day. If he were going to say no he'd have already done so in increasingly loud tones. Yet he couldn't look too eager—perhaps that's what he had learned from Jason? No, he'd not known him as a boy. That was just another similarity.

"Not a driveling romance?" Damian asked, quirking up an eyebrow.

The day Damian fell in love would be the day the world changed, Bruce suspected. He could only hope it was as suitably mortifying and wonderful as it had been for him, when he'd met Selina. "Not a romance."

Damian eyed him suspiciously, but his entire demeanor lightened. "All right. I will inform Pennyworth. Grayson and Drake too, if they've arrived in the last hour. Not Todd though." Damian turned to go but Bruce could hear him muttering to himself as he went. " _I bet his taste is even worse than Grayson's . . ."_

Bruce watched his son as he left. His thoughts were already beginning to drift from their after dinner plans to the more dire implications of the audio file. No matter what it was, if Talia sent it, that meant he and his family was targeted. He would have to take measures to protect them until they had a better grasp of the threat.

Bruce strode to the console and tapped in a 14 digit number sequence. Files pertaining to both Ra's and Talia flashed across the screen. After pulling up several articles, he called Barbara.

"Oracle, are you in?" That was a courtesy. Whether she was working on her own consultant business, brokering information, networking the Gotham vigilante network, or heading up Birds of Prey, Barbara practically lived in the Clocktower. The chance that she was out was slim.

Still, it took her a few minutes longer to respond than he'd expected. "Am now. Everything all right, B?"

"Is the line secured?" The lines were always secured, although not always made unavailable to other members of the Bat family. By asking, Barbara would know to clamp down the line so that no one—and he meant no one—could listen in.

"Is now, Bruce. Bad news?"

"Not necessarily. It's about the audio from Talia. Damian couldn't recognize the voice or language either. I'm sending it now to the Watchtower, but I'd like to ensure that the family is safe."

"Of course. What do you need me to do?" Her voice was low and calming, with not a hint of that high strung and fearless Batgirl she had been. Age had done much, and being crippled by the Joker even more. Her trials had tempered her into a presence far more powerful than she ever could have become as Batgirl. Oracle was irreplaceable in the world of heroes, Gotham, and his own patchwork family.

"You were saying that you wanted a Bat presence in Japan. I think it may be time for Stephanie and Cassandra to duck out of Gotham for a while. Perhaps Tim as well, if he could apply for a semester abroad. What do you think?"

Barbara hummed. "Well it's not very subtle, Bruce. What's next, an enforced cross country bonding between Dick, Damian and Jason?"

The image made Bruce shudder. "God, no. I doubt any of them would make it back."

"Oh, I don't know. You might be underestimating how persuasive Dick can be. With our luck, they'd come back bedecked with daisy chains, singing Kumbaya."

There was a hint of pique in her tone. She and Dick were fighting again? He generally tried to stay out of all that, but he really needed her at her finest. "Barbara, I'm serious. If the al Ghuls are planning something, I want the family out of range. It's also a good opportunity for independence. In most respects I trust the girls more than I would Damian, at this point. I think we should put them to the test. "

There was the faint clatter of her fingers flying over the keyboard as she responded. "Well, seeing as how I've been pushing for an Asian expansion for almost a year now, I'm not going to say no. I'll run it by the girls later this evening, and have it all ready in a couple days. You can ask Tim, although I doubt he'll say yes, seeing as how he just agreed to intern with me for the summer while he's on break from university. Still, you can try."

Bruce hesitated. Since the Teen Titans had gone on a temporary hiatus last year, following the inclusion of Dick and Victor into the Justice League, and the clear divide between the members pushing 30 and those pushing 20, Tim had clearly been chafing at returning to his position of Red Robin. Bruce had thought the answer to the solution might be having him take over Nightwing's duties in Bludhaven for a while, but perhaps training with Barbara might appeal to his intellect. They would have to have a serious discussion about this soon.

As to the other three targets . . . He reflected, and the image of Damian and Jason fighting to the death on the roof of Dick's car lingered.

"I'll talk to Tim and see what he would rather do," Bruce said, pinching the bridge of his nose through the cowl. "At the very least I want increased security on those that remain."

"Even Jason?"

"Especially Jason."

Her amusement was audible. "That's going to go over like a lead balloon, Bruce."

He smirked. "Not if you don't get caught, Barbara."

...

...

...

 **June 20th, 20xx**

 **London, 9:02 AM**

The most powerful mage in the known universe stopped beneath a smoky gaslight and pulled out a cigarette. The gaslight was more for show than anything else, and he didn't begrudge it. London had a sordid history, and little touches acted as a nod to authenticity for tourists. Besides, symbols held great power, and he was all about lights in dark places.

Speaking of lights . . . He tucked the box of cigarettes back into a deep pocket of his signature tan trenchcoat. With a tiny flare of power, he lit the cigarette. After taking a drag, he then proceeded to engineer both halves of an inner monologue.

 _Hello, London._

 _Hello to you, John Constantine._

 _Don't take this the wrong way London, but it's cold and dreary for June. Anything you could do about that?_

 _Oh piss off, John Constantine._

 _Bad breakup, eh? Tell me it wasn't Bermuda. The weather there is to die for, I've heard._

 _Oh, sure. Let's talk bad breakups, shall we? How's Nick Necro these days? Or Zatanna Zatara, there's a love, how has she been getting on?_

John pouted. He knew it wasn't going to be a good day when he got the best of himself in less than 30 seconds. Well, he knew exactly what to do in situations like these. It was just after 9 AM, he'd had his morning coffee and a cigarette, and he was going right back to bed.

The walk to his flat could have been instantaneous, but he preferred not to use his power in this neighborhood. Too many old acquaintances. Like Mad Hettie, who was far, far older than she looked. She hadn't died yet, even though they were friendly. John liked that. He liked consistency, and people who smiled at him and didn't die, forget him, or lose their minds directly afterwards, so he walked by, flipping her a coin for a dark-dyed chrysanthemum. He meant to stay and talk, but took in her hunched shoulders and skittering eyes, and moved on.

There was a queer turn to the air, and if Hettie felt it too, perhaps it was something he should pay attention to.

The stairs to his apartment creaked alarmingly, but that was nothing new. He could probably afford a better place . . . oh, who was he kidding. He absolutely could not afford a better place. He was the poorest mage he knew, and he had the sinking feeling it was all his own fault. _Things were dangerous to tie oneself to,_ he counselled himself. _Almost as dangerous as people. Better to be a bit of flotsam on the sea, washing in and out of trouble._

Had his mother said that, on another of his infamous internal dialogues? He couldn't remember. Ah well. He'd figure it out someday.

Unlike 90% of the people he knew, and the people who survived dealing with him, in _any_ capacity, John pushed boldly through his door without even checking from traps. If there was something inside strong enough to kill him, it was like to do so without petty traps and safeguards. That wasn't very likely, at this point. Far more likely any altercation would result in the intruder's painful demise, because that was what the universe did, apparently, to fuck up his life further.

This all went double if his enemy was also his friend, of course.

Odd mood aside, his apartment was empty. Everything was as he'd left it, and John scoffed. Of course he had gotten all worked up for nothing. It was simply going to be one of those days. His dour mood, and that jittery feeling in his shoulders was likely the aftereffects of too much caffeine and nicotine the night before.

John stubbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, exposing a sliver of his wrist. His pale, translucent skin did nothing to hide his veins—undeniable proof he was blue-blooded, he'd joked to Zatanna once—that glowed like blue fire through the epithelial layer.

John blinked. This was not how his arm normally looked. "What's all this, then?" He murmured, as he brought his wrist up for closer inspection.

A moment later, he shrugged off his trenchcoat along with the rest of his clothes, and soon found every visible vein on his body was glowing blue. He examined himself in the mirror and determined that it was most unflattering, particularly on his buttocks. He took a moment for careful thought. He couldn't imagine glowing blood to be a positive thing. More than likely it signalled some awful danger—terrible, all-encompassing, death-and-destruction-to-all-on-Earth kind of danger.

John heaved a sigh.

Well, wouldn't that just make his Monday.

...

...

...

 **June 21st, 20xx**

 **—, 3:01 AM**

 **Day 1**

 _Wake, heaving. Pain like knives, like magma. Something wrong. Everything wrong. Can't breathe. Panic, panic, panic. Red flickering at corners in vision—fire? Danger. Get out get out get out._

 _Stumble over bed. Legs feel broken. No breath to swear. Can't walk—float instead._

 _No better this way. Air feels like lead—keep going. Must keep going._

 _Going to die. Can't take this. Pain shutting down sight—everything blurry. Have to get out. Out out—up?_

 _Blast through door. Hurts to breathe. Hurts to use powers. Feels wrong. Everything wrong. Can't get high—fly at eye level. Dark out. Shadows are watching. Blood exploding in veins._

 _Know the way. Find door. Can't see, so feel. Hands scrabble at wood, find catch. Shove through. On ground now. Too weak to fly. So crawl—crawl over embers._

 _Face wet. Salt on lips. Air is warm now. Yellow light. Fingers numb. Press button down hard._

 _Thoughts getting quiet._

 _Don't wanna' die._

 _Don't wan—_

…

…

…

…

 _..._

 **Todd is a name with Scottish influence, meaning fox/wily/cunning. Damian is very aware of this. Damian is also 15, and still finds time to bait his older brother figure even though they both have better things to do.**

 **John Constantine's monologue is inspired by his monologue in Sandman volume 1. Mad Hettie is also from the Sandman series, which is Vertigo but come on it is so, so good.**

 **Before things get dark, I'd like to share with you that my headcanon of Hal Jordan is that all his friends have really distinct tastes in shows (Barry like rom coms, Ollie like crime scene investigation dramas, Carol likes documentaries, etc) and Hal really doesn't like TV at all. Maybe a football or soccer game is the least objectionable thing for him. So he sits and watches shows with all his friends not because he likes any of the shows at all but because his friends do, and he just wants to spend time with them, so he goes along with it. In realizing this, I have become so much more fond of Harold Jordan, who I used to think was just a massive douchecanoe. THE MORE YOU KNOW.**


	2. Ch 1 - Blitzkrieg

**With all the post and pre New 52 shenanigans, I have no sainted idea of who knows Billy Batson's true age/identity/etc. For the plot purposes of this fic, no one knows his true age/name/unmagical wizard ego save the people explicitly stated in this chapter (and his foster family, obviously).**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Blitzkrieg**

* * *

 **June 21st, 20xx**

 **Bludhaven, 7:45 AM**

 **Day 1**

 _Red Robin—_

It was one of those juxtapositional dreams where the layer cake he was holding was actually the key to stopping Alfred's unwanted pregnancy, yet all he could do was stuff piece after piece into his mouth.

 _Red Robin!_

It tasted like cardboard and the smoke used in tear gas. It was also yelling at him, in increasingly urgent tones.

He took one more bite and something inside the mass wriggled.

" _Timothy Jackson Drake! Answer me! Answer me right now!"_

Timothy Jackson Drake, also known as Red Robin, shot up out of bed at once alert and alarmed. When Barbara Gordon woke you a scant two hours after you collapsed into bed after a long night of patrolling the city under your 'older brother's' vigilante protection, you woke up without protest. Tim suspected that whenever she used _that_ tone of voice alongside your full civilian name you woke up immediately under any circumstances.

"I'm up," he said, in a voice that was rough with sleep. "Oracle, what's wrong?"

There was a harsh intake of breath over the line, but when she spoke there was no trace of weakness. This was game mode, and it meant something had gone horribly wrong.

"You need to get out of the building," she commanded him, glacial and unfeeling. " _Now._ Get to the Cave, ASAP. _Don't_ respond to anyone's hails. Don't take your bike, and don't use any equipment more complicated than your grapple gun. I think that was how they got Garfield."

Tim had slipped out of bed as she spoke and pulled on his jacket over his muscle shirt, fixing the batbelt on over his striped pajama bottoms. He'd been moving on autopilot, but that last made him freeze. _Got_ Garfield? The way Barbara's voice had hitched . . .

"We've been compromised?" He said, mind skipping past the horror of a teammate's death to the crux of the issue.

Oracle was no longer impassive, or perhaps she never had been. Her pauses and audible intakes of breath clued Tim in. Barbara was crying, or trying her hardest not to. That scared him most of all.

"Something like that," she admitted. "Take nothing with you, just clear out. Jason has a safehouse near you: 1308 Billiards; he's above the butcher's. He's left a modified bike behind in the back alley. It should respond to frequency 408 on the scanner. Take cover, remote start it, and if it doesn't explode, use that. If it does . . . I'll figure something else out on the fly."

If she was dropping their civilian names the line was beyond secure. Tim made his way to the window and snuck a peek outside. He was struck by the lack of people out. It was nearly 8 in the morning, where was everyone? The news vendors at least should have set up their stands!

When the answer came, he blamed its delay on his growing panic. The building had been cordoned. That meant the enemy—whoever they were—was already in the building, and he was trapped.

"O, status on the family," he demanded. He would not ask about the Titans. If Garfield was out of the picture, he couldn't know about the others until he was in a position to do something about it.

Barbara's sniffle was audible now. "Girls are safe, and you-know-where. Got ahold of Steph; Cass is chasing down a lead but reported in. Dick and Damian were at the manor last night, they're with B and Alf."

As she clued him in, Tim tapped out a few quick commands on the console he'd installed in the wall behind his bed. In seconds, he had the security feed to the entire building at his fingertips, as well as the security features. From that he learned that every single doorway was either sealed by an outside source, or, judging by the bulky packages wedged against other doors, fitted with an explosive.

His enemies had been thorough. Tim swore quietly under his breath. Damn it all, he'd have to escape through the basement.

Before he'd moved in, he had made passageways through several of the other apartment buildings—no worry about the exorbitant cost of renting a room on each floor when his subset of Wayne Enterprises owned the entire building. It was his last resort, but his pursuers had sealed off all the more obvious options. Tim could only hope they didn't know about the basement chute, otherwise his escape plan was about to get slightly more exciting. It would help it if he knew who was coming after him, or how extensive that force was.

He readied both grapple guns—just in case—and asked about the last, wayward member of their family, "And Jason?"

"He's good. I'm not sure he and the Outlaws were even targeted—no attack has been registered, at least. He's not at the Manor, but he's on his way." Barbara hesitated. "Tim, don't ask me about anyone else. Not until you get here."

His intruder alarm went off, startling them both into silence. The enemies had managed to get past the other doors unnoticed, but his personal door had protections the likes of which were rarely seen on Earth. As it was, a quick glance at his security monitor assured him that someone was currently using something electromagnetic to get through the primary keypad lock to his door, and they were progressing more quickly than he'd like.

Barbara, with her own resources at her fingertips, knew this as well. She quietly swore, "Shit., they're bypassing security. Tim, get out of there."

Time to go. Tim shot one grapple gun, shattering the side window that took up the entire south wall. He then shot the other to grapple up to the the ceiling frame, releasing the now-superfluous gun as he rose. He tucked his legs and rolled into the hidden crawlspace just as the door was thrown open. He hesitated for one brief moment to see if they would reveal anything. Would he recognize them? Would there be a sign of who had sent them? Just how badly had they been compromised?

He hesitated long enough to watch three men move purposefully and silently into his apartment. Dressed in identical suits, sunglasses, and security headsets, there was no obvious indicator of who they were working for. At Oracle's quiet but insistent hiss of his name through his earpiece, Tim decided it was time to go.

He waited for two of them to lean over and examine his security console before beginning his slide down the chute. The zipper of his jacket rattling against metal made enough noise to notify his pursuers, but not enough for them to accurately pinpoint where he was. There was the rattle of a semi-automatic— _so incongruous with their bespoke suits,_ Tim thought wildly—just above his head, bullets piercing through the metal of the chute. Before they could fire another round, Tim had gained enough momentum and had slipped down another two floors, and within another few seconds was out of reach.

The slide swerved a little, enough to protect him from the danger of landing a straight drop. Curving out at the end, it shot him out into the padded basement, where he tucked into a roll at the end so that he wouldn't break his legs upon landing. He hated that damn escape plan, but it was the safest. For one thing, it got him to the bottom of the building faster than anyone else could chase him. For another, it lead to the abandoned sewer system, which he had made sure to learn like the back of his hand, and was, hopefully, harder to monitor than his apartment complex.

"O, I'm good. Escaped, won't say where. I'll let you know when I get to the bike," He reported as he hiked open the trapdoor leading to the sewer system. He climbed carefully down the ladder in stockinged feet, careful both for rusty metal, unexpected holes, and also to close the trapdoor behind him.

"Be careful, Tim."

He signed off as he walked along the dimly lit path, doing his best not to touch the green, algae-ridden walls. From his bat belt he pulled a domino and adhesive—Batglue, Dick had proudly called it, back when Tim had been younger and Robin and a hell of a lot more gullible than he was now—and firmly affixed the domino to his face. He was wandering out in civilian wear, pajamas for chrissake _,_ but he was also toting a grapple gun along with the standard bat belt. The mask wasn't the best protection, but he'd prefer not to blow his cover, even if someone had already done it for him.

 _If someone has blown my cover, I'm taking this remarkably well,_ Tim thought. It hadn't exactly hit him yet. None of it had, but questions bombarded him. How had they found him? How had they found out who he _was?_ And what of everyone else? Did they know Bruce? Dick? Damian?

And what had Barbara meant by _they got Garfield?_

Tim counted the byways, and took a left when he'd gone three blocks. He hadn't mentioned this to Barbara, but he knew exactly where Jason had a safehouse in Bludhaven. He'd even been there once, back when Dick had been running the city and Jason was still hellbent on pissing Nightwing off. Tim was willing to bet there would be a passageway from that house to the sewers—all good safe houses had at least three distinct exit plans, and that wasn't taking into account Jason's well-developed sense of paranoia—but he didn't know about it. He did know there was a manhole in the alley leading to the parking lot where Jason stored the bike, however, and it was a perfect point to test the remote start and not end up like the wife in the Godfather.

It also gave him a moment to send out a few messages of his own. Barbara had told him not to respond to any hails, but hadn't said anything about sending them out. Knowing that the Batfamily was all right was his first priority, but he needed to know about his subsection of the Teen Titans: Kon and Cassie and Artemis. Bart was still stuck in the future, paying for sins that Tim couldn't blame him for, but at least it made him safe in Tim's present. He'd leave worrying about the older subsection of Teen Titans, internally dubbed the 'Post-Titans,' to Dick (who used to lead them) but if Garfield, one of their main members was down, he worried for Jackson, M'gann, Wally, and . . . well, the other honorary members.  
The group text was short and impersonal: _Status report._ If all hell was raining down upon them, it would at least let them know that he was alive. If they were by any means incapable of receiving the message, it was significant enough to him and his enemy.

Red Robin was alive and ready to avenge them.

...

...

...

 **June 21st, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 8:38 AM**

 **Day 1**

By the time Jason Todd made it into Gotham he half expected a ghost town. Martial law at best, and a meteor from the sky at worst, but nothing had changed except for the sick feeling of surreality that licked up his spine, one vertebra at a time. Bab's call had been frantic. She barely had time to spit out a prerogative before it sounded like she was forcibly pulled from the line.

 _We've been compromised, and they're picking us off one by one. I'm getting death reports from all over the country, and there are so many more I can't contact._

 _Jason, come home. We need you here._

She had asked for the Outlaws too, safety in numbers and all that, but Jason needed to know ex-fucking-actly what was going on before he dragged his team into this mess. Roy and Kori were watching the news, shacked up in a seedy motel about 20 miles outside Gotham. Kori could get them both there within 5 minutes, putting them in range if Jason was walking into a trap. If they figured out what the hell had gone wrong before Babs told him, he'd have a jump on that, too.

Jason grit his teeth. He had woken up this morning feeling good. Toogood. The universe was clearly punishing him, and he had a feeling he knew why. It wasn't for blowing something up or killing someone—if anything, it was the opposite.

 _I should never have dreamed of leaving vigilantism,_ he thought, and then rather than reflect further on that tantalizing line of thought, he gunned his bike, leaving all thoughts of happiness behind. He drove directly to the tunnel leading to the Batcave, eschewing secrecy for speed. There was no point in off-roading or backtracking, especially if Babs was right and their secret identities were known to a hostile force. Or the world, she hadn't specified. Either option was pretty shitty. It made a guy almost glad he was legally dead.

 _Legally dead and on the wrong side of the hero to villain spectrum, but still part bat, apparently,_ Jason thought when the retinal scan guarding the side entrance to the Cave let him in without sounding an alarm. It had been a long time since he'd entered in through the Cave, and he hadn't been sure it was still working. He'd been to the Manor, of course, to bother Timbelina and Demon Child and Dick, but he'd always let himself in the servant's entrance so he could ostensibly run into Alfred, too. Never when Bruce was home, obviously, but with how busy Batman had been over the last six months, Jason had been popping in fairly frequently as of late. The Demon Child hadn't been amused, although he'd taken the opportunity— _demanded_ the opportunity, the pompous brat—to refresh some of the darker teachings Talia had passed on to both.

Jason winced. He hoped Bruce didn't know about that part. They were still all so hung up about killing, although if things had really gone as to shit as Babs had implied, they might be willing to overlook that . . .

The Batcave was quiet and dark, and it made his hackles rise. If this was an emergency, where was everyone? He crept through the darkness, and every moment of stillness ratcheted his tension up further. Turning the corner that led to the supercomputer, he heard a hitching, gasping noise—someone was either choking to death, or crying. Jason slunk around another corner so that he was in the Cave proper, and over at the far console was Tim, awkwardly patting Dick's shoulder as he wept.

 _Oh hell,_ Jason thought, _that answered that question._ He ignored his inner voice that seethed _you are walking into a TRAP_ , and strode purposefully towards the impending altercation. Replacement glanced over at him as he approached and looked _relieved._ How jacked up did the situation have to be for Timily to look like that? At _him?_

It had to be worse than Babs had told him. Now that he was presented with a sobbing Richard Grayson, he kind of wished he'd asked for more specifics.

Jason was practically on top of them by the time Dick looked up with the most stricken expression he'd ever seen him wear. Had he looked like that when he'd died? Maybe, but before he could follow that fascinating line of thought any further, Dick choked out his name and threw himself at him.

He froze. Years of training bade him defend himself, but his brain was still trying to parse through what the hell was going on. Dick pounded on Jason's chest with his fists; a wailing, flailing mess, and it was all Jason could do to catch one of his arms. Dick's next blow went wide, and the fight burnt out. He collapsed against him, tamed, clutching at Jason's shoulder as he sobbed.

Timmers watched on in horrified fascination, his eyebrows up at his hairline. Jason was willing to bet his own expression mirrored his. Dick so rarely blew a fuse, but if his inarticulate grief was any sign, it was a symptom of the current situation . Hoping to distract Tim as Nightwing broke down, he nodded to the earpiece that Dick had dropped when he'd launched himself at him.

"What the fuck is happening?"He asked, equally torn between figuring this shit out, making Dick stop fucking crying already, and regaining his cool before Bruce walked in on them. Tim started and grabbed the transponder, turning up the volume so all could hear.

" _Dick? Dick!"_

Tim winced. "Yeah, Barbara. He's here. Jason's got him. Whatever you just told him . . . he didn't take it well."

Jason tried to ignore how Dick's wracking sobs made his stomach feel like it was crumpling inwards like a crushed can. He had never seen Dick grieve like this, and he'd never wanted to. He'd almost rather be dead again than experience this.

"What the _hell_ is going on, Babs?" He demanded, pressing his lips together before he could say anything referencing Dick's sobs. They echoed through the Cave, and even Babs had to hear them.

Barbara's response came with no preamble, cutting right to the bone. _"Victor Stone and Wally West have been confirmed deceased. They were murdered early this morning, sometime between 4 and 6 AM. As far as we can tell, they were both killed while in bed, if not asleep. Wally by some sort of lethal injection, and Victor by an electrical charge that overrode his suit's protection."_

The stillness from earlier was back, pressing down on Jason like a tangible force. It felt like this in his dreams, sometimes, when he dreamt about digging himself up from his grave. Tim seemed to be similarly affected, as the only move he had made was to tighten his grip on the microphone. Dick, pounding his fist weakly on Jason's chest, was the only person moving in the eerily static room.

Jason understood. Cyborg and Kid Flash had been two of his best friends, and Dick was powered by his grief. He would have reacted no better if he had lost Roy or Kori. He would undoubtedly react worse, and with a hell of a lot more explosions, so he wrapped his hand around Dick's fist in an attempt to anchor him. Dick wasn't hitting very hard, but he was still going to leave bruises if he kept this up.

"What's going on?" He asked. "Who's targeting us?"

Barbara's voice came over the line, tinny and defeated. " _If it was just them I'd have some idea, but I'm getting reports from all over the country. The list of missing or dead just keeps getting longer, and there's no discernable_ pattern _! Heroes that barely knew each other: humans, metas, aliens—"_

Tim jolted and nearly crushed the mic. "O, status on Conner Kent."

Fingers tangled within his own. Surprised, Jason looked down at Dick, who had apparently decided he'd rather hold Jason's hand and clutch his jacket in his bid to stand upright than continue fighting him. He took it a step further and rested his forehead on Jason's collarbone, his hot breath fanning across Jason's chest.

 _Ok,_ a small, irreverent voice in Jason's head said. _So this is a thing that is happening._

It took Barbara a moment to respond, in which all Jason could hear were Dick's quieting sobs. He could feel them reverberating through his own chest, and it was driving him a little insane.

Then, "Tim, I can't find him," she admitted. "He's on the MIA list. I can tell you for sure that he's not in Metropolis, Gotham, or Smallville. I don't know any more than that."

Tim's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When he opened them again his face had flattened out into a mask of determination. Jason would bet cash money that he had compressed all his pain and fear, transmuting it into something usable and feeding it into his iron will. Jason had learned to do something similar, except all his pain just became rage. Still, he was struck by how _small_ Tim suddenly looked. For some reason, the thought of his replacement being weak in any way didn't sit well with him.

Ah, shit. He was fond of him, wasn't he? When the hell had _that_ happened?

"Jason?"

Jason glanced down at the man who was _still_ in his arms. Had the Wonder Boy finally realized how awkward this position was? What was he saying—this was Dick Grayson, who had probably learned to hug before learning to talk. Knowing that, Jason could be here for a while. He should probably get comfortable, or prepare to apply strategic violence.

"Yeah?" He asked, when nothing more seemed to be immediately forthcoming.

Dick picked up his head to stare up at him, and it was just pitiful. His olive skin was stained with tears, and his big blue eyes were now small and puffy and red. Some indescribable emotion passed through them, and it made Jason's breath catch in his throat. Dick was wrecked, and Jason really, really, _really_ did not know how to handle this.

Maybe he should fight something? Yes, he should fight something. Not Dick though. Not until he _stopped crying._

"Kori? Roy? Are they ok?" Dick forced out.

" _Did they come with you?"_ Bab's voice over the transponder was no less interested.

Jason glanced over at Tim as he responded, who watched passively, clearly more preoccupied about his best friend's fate. "They're fine," he replied. "They're not here but in position. I can call them down. Are they coming in through the Cave, or through the Manor?"

Tim glanced to the side, his breath catching. Jason would have looked too, but he could practically feel the temperature drop 10 degrees, and knew who had just entered the Cave. His shoulders tensed—he couldn't help it, it was an ingrained response—but the situation was marginally saved by Tim, who stepped close enough to rub Dick's back, reassuringly. Now they were a tableau of brothers comforting the oldest rather than two men just hugging it out in the Batcave.

Jason dropped Dick's hand before giving Tim a warning look. Tim returned it with equanimity, and while he was currently grateful, it cemented Jason's opinion that Tim was an evil little shit who may or may not have an information hoarding problem, and that in the future, something would have to be done about this.

Dick, by virtue of sobbing himself blind, missed all of this. "Just have them come, Jay," he pleaded, and brought his free hand up so that both were clutching Jason's trademark jacket. "We need to be together now. Otherwise they'll keep picking us off . . . like . . . " He swallowed thickly, and then forced out a shaky laugh. "God, I gotta' get ahold of myself before Bruce gets here."

Jason and Tim very carefully did not look over to where Bruce now lurked in the shadows, his youngest son at his side. For a moment it appeared that Bruce might actually give them a moment, would wonders never cease, but Damian forged ahead, as directly as he did everything else.

Even he was not without a small level of tact, however. Jason suspected that even Damian loved Dick, and that being so, the Violet Lanterns had missed out on a good thing here. "Grayson. Drake. _Todd,"_ Damian said, more ire in his voice when he got to Jason. _"_ Am I correct in assuming that Oracle is on the line?"

At the sound of his name, Dick finally detached himself. Jason shook his arms, rubbing the areas where Dick's iron grip had temporarily ceased blood flow while Dick turned his sights on Damian, and scooped up the protesting teen into a bear hug. Jason turned to the console, delaying the moment when he'd have to look at Bruce—at _Batman—_ and see nothing at all of his own whirling, powerful, barely comprehensible emotions for him reflected in the man's stone visage. He tapped his own earpiece and spoke into it, taking care to use the code phrases he and Roy had picked up from Kori's native language.

" _Roy, Kori, come. First family is secure. Add your safety to ours."_ And then, in English: "I'd stop watching the news if I were you."

...

...

...

 **June 21st, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 12:04 AM**

 **Day 1**

Zatanna Zatara watched as survivors crowded around Bruce Wayne's dining room table. The remains of the American supercommunity were either physically present or connected over what they hoped was a secure network, seeing and hearing through a dozen monitors arranged around the room. Not everyone was in a position to make it there on time, but all needed to be present at a League meeting of this level of enormity.

Not that everyone present was a member of the Justice League. Nor had all of them known that Batman was _Bruce Wayne's_ secret identity. Zatanna had known, of course, although she had been really damn careful not to say anything, and especially not to goggle at him when she had met him as a civilian that one time. Everyone not already in the know had found out approximately 3 hours earlier, when his identity had become public knowledge during the 9:00 AM World News.

Whoever had compromised them had done so completely. Very few identities were left untouched, or otherwise unmolested: Bruce Wayne had been unmasked, as had almost his entire family—Richard Grayson, Timothy Drake, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, and by extension, Alfred Pennyworth. So had Clark Kent, Harold Jordan, Oliver Queen, Roy Harper, Bartholomew Allen, Diana Prince, Arthur Curry, John Stewart, Dinah Lance, Carol Ferris, Helena Bertinelli, Ted Kord, Michael Carter, and herself . . . and those were the few still _alive._

There were a few exceptions. The angry-looking Red Hood hadn't been compromised, but legally—technically—Jason Todd was dead. It had been an infamous, public death, too. Bruce Wayne's foster kid dying of a 'mysterious and sudden illness'? You better believe that made the evening news. What good was outing him as a zombie when the super-community, let alone the public, couldn't understand how he had returned from the dead?

Barbara Gordon—Oracle—had also been unrevealed, although Zatanna suspected she may simply be holding back the news with her security skills. Damian Wayne had also been left alone, although his connection to Bruce as his only biological son would make him the obvious, if not only, candidate for the current Robin.

Most of the aliens on earth—disregarding Superman, of course—were also left untouched, but this too was unhelpful, as the only aliens represented right now were Starfire and Hawkgirl.

The biggest surprise of the morning, at least in Zatanna's opinion, was that Shazam's identity had not been publicly revealed. Granted, he had not come through the event unscathed. His normally handsome face was wan, and he could barely stand upright. Ah, but his powers were magic based, weren't they? No wonder he looked so ill. It was certainly in keeping with how sick she had been on and off throughout the morning . . .

Of course, Shazam wouldn't be Shazam had he kept this strategic secret. As one of the kindest and most straightforward members of the League, he had come forth with his identity almost immediately. Bruce had attempted to argue him down for less than a minute before Shazam turned to everyone in attendance and announced, with a self-deprecating air, "I uh, must have missed the cue to unmask, but we're all in this together. You all know my face, but my real name is William Batson. Just call me Billy." He had managed a sad smile. "I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you all for real, but we all know it's kind of not."

It was on the heels of that admission that the meeting was called to order. Zatanna swallowed down the churning nerves swirling in her gut as the room slid sideways, distorting into 5 rooms, then 50. She was getting worse. She'd had moments of clarity spaced out throughout the morning, but they were getting fewer and farther between. The effects from the event of this morning were starting to partition her mind again . . .

Barbara Gordon wheeled herself up to the head of the table, and Bruce made room for her. She had been a tall, striking woman before the Joker had crippled her, and since then she had relinquished none of her presence or beauty. All attention turned to her, even those hundreds of miles away.

"Thank you all for coming," she began, panning the room to include everyone. "I would like to begin by congratulating all of you for surviving each and every attempt on your lives that have taken place over the last 12 hours. All of you have gone through terrible trials to reach this moment, but we are not safe yet. This is a dark time for all of us, but we need to stay strong and informed. That's why I'm here. What I'm about to tell you is terrible and hard to accept, but until we do so, we can't fight our enemy effectively."

She ended with an entreaty, "So please, _listen_ , and don't let your pain or suspicion master you. Otherwise they will win, and I believe I speak for all of us when I say that is unacceptable."

The room waited in stony silence—a rarity for the League, Zatanna was impressed— and Barbara cleared her throat. "As everyone already knows, we have been compromised. Nearly every single one of us is now known to the public, and our civilian lives may be beyond retrieval. That is to say nothing of our immediate safety. To those of you in the room we are for the time being safe. The Manor has its own defenses, and as of yet Gotham is nearly unanimous in its decision to support Bruce Wayne, and his vigilante persona. To those of you streaming in, I hope that you all have found secure locations and are in possession of iron-clad backup plans. If not, we can discuss this later. As it is, we are pressed for time and I must continue."

She took a deep breath, organizing her thoughts. "5 days ago, Talia al Ghul sent out a mysterious recording that we still have not been able to decipher. About 22 hours ago, she sent out a long-range distress call warning of 'an alien invasion,' before it was cut out by her father, Ra's. We have not been able to confirm this, but word from our operatives in the League of Shadows is that she was then mounted in a crucifixion tableau, and died within half a day. We are operating under the assumption that she was murdered under Ra's orders, and that her death may be connected to those that followed.

Zatanna threw a quick glance to Damian Wayne. This was his mother, and Oracle had dealt with her death somewhat callously. He betrayed no expression at all, however, and that seemed wrong to Zatanna. Shouldn't he care that his mother had been _crucified?_

Jesus, _she_ did, and she actively disliked the power-mad woman!

"14 hours ago, I discovered that my supercomputer was in the process of being cracked," Barbara continued. "I was able to halt the infiltration, yet as soon as I stopped it a virus took over my system, destroying my computer in the process. By the time I had access to another computer of that power—Batman's spare— the first reports of our secret identities had already begun pouring in from news programs from all over the world."

There was a murmur of dismay from several around the table, but Barbara continued, "Unmasking us is but one part of our enemy's three-pronged attack. The second prong took place between 4 and 9 AM this morning, wherein the following individuals were murdered: Wally West, Kid Flash; Victor Stone, Cyborg; Kyle Rayner, Green Lantern; Guy Gardner, Green Lantern; Garfield Logan, Beast Boy; Artemis Crock, Tigress; Cassandra Sandsmark, Wondergirl; Patrick O'Brian, Plastic Man; Jackson Hyde, Aqualad; and Rose Wilson, Ravager."

In the stunned silence that followed, Barbara took a deep breath, her professional facade wavering. "Some, like Wally, Victor, and Artemis, were killed in their sleep, or at the very least were in bed alone when it happened. Garfield was killed in an attempt to escape, and managed to send up a signal flare before his car exploded. Jackson was surrounded by the corpses of several assassins, and was also able to signal for help before they subdued and killed him. Rose managed to kill several of her attackers as well, but did not signal for help. She did place an untraceable call to a blocked number before she died of blood loss.

"This all points to a powerful organization. Someone knows exactly who we are, where we live, and how best to take us down. Yet there are some deaths that tell us something more: beginning with Kyle Rayner and Guy Gardner. Neither sent out a call for help, and Kyle was literally stabbed in the back. It would appear that they were killed by someone that they either trusted, or did not perceive to be a threat. Of course, it could all be positioned that way. Kyle might not have known someone was in the apartment with him. Whatever happened, it happened quickly: a modern day blitzkrieg."

Barbara's voice had grown hoarse, yet she continued on. "One of the latest victims was Cassandra Sandsmark. She and her mother were found dead in their house just a few hours ago. Seeing as how Supergirl is nigh invulnerable—yet _human,_ and I'll get to why that is important in a minute—we are at a loss as to how they were able to accomplish this. Wonder Woman, I realize this may be encroaching on Amazonian secrets, but do you have any idea on how this could have happened?"

Wonder Woman was one of those watching through a monitor, several hundred miles away. Like everyone else in the room she looked exhausted, although Zatanna thought it veered closer to the wreckedsection of the spectrum. The monitor started to grow bigger and smaller at will, and Zatanna held tight to the mockery of John His Royal Bastard Constantine's smile, her anger keeping the world in place.

She would get through this, she would. Even if she had to rely on _him_ again to do it.

The Amazon Princess kept her chin up and her body stiff. After a long moment, she sighed and rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "I think I might, actually," she admitted. "Cassandra's powers were given to her by Zeus, and there is a long history of his children and benefactees rising up against him. He would have ensured some sort of safeguard, a way of temporarily disabling her powers if she ever threatened to rise up against him. In the past, he has used something we could call . . . Maternal Dispowerment. In this instance, her mother could have been tricked into thinking her daughter needed to be temporarily stripped of her powers. One touch and it would have left them both open to attack."

Many heads were hung and jaws were gritted, and there was the sound of uneven inhales signalling the fight not to cry or scream or rage. Barbara took back control before Bruce had to call everyone to order.

"Thank you. Morbid as it may seem, that is a small relief as such a thing cannot be replicated. I mentioned that her humanity was an important aspect to her death. It has to do with the last prong of their attack: a magical pulse went out just before 8:30 this morning. It seems to have targeted all alien lifeforms on Earth. It killed most instantly."

There was an uproar at this, but Barbara talked over them, and within a few moments the din died down. "Besides Hawkgirl and Starfire who thankfully are still with us, Superboy is MIA, _and_ uncompromised. My contacts are looking for him, yet it's been several hours, and there is no trace of him. In terms of other alien life forms, the bounty hunter Lobo died in a brothel in Marakesh, whereas Doomsday died in his prison cell in the Fortress of Solitude. The tracer we placed on Darkseid shorted out, which either means he too is dead, or he finally discovered the location of it at _that exact moment_ after 3 years of living with it embedded in his flesh. I start with these three because I want you to understand the enormity of the pulse."

She swallowed, and kept her gaze firmly on the space above Oliver Queen's head. "On the other hand, M'gann M'orzz—Miss Martian—died in her home, watching a rerun of Twin Peaks." She swallowed again. "Kara Kent—Supergirl—died in a coffee shop, just after placing her order. Krypto, Superman's dog, died at his foster mother's feet."

The silence was profound. These were some of the most powerful beings on the planet, and they had all been wiped out instantly. Zatanna, who had known of it nearly as long as it had happened, chose to watch the two surviving aliens instead. Shayera looked wrathful, and her face took up all of the monitor. Koriand'r was shocked. She was flanked by Roy and Jason, and their expressions mirrored Shayera's. _They_ saw what was coming, even if Kori did not.

Barbara was not quite finished, however. "So far, the pulse seems to have no negative effect on humans or metas, but _does_ on magic users. Zatanna has been working with me to determine the source and effects of the blast, but it is slow going. Zatanna?" She invited, gesturing Zatanna to step forward.

Zatanna stepped forward to the table, parking herself only a few feet away from Barbara and Bruce. She took that time to try and will the room back to normal. She felt like she was spiralling into madness, and if she couldn't pull herself together, using her magic in this state might seriously hurt herself or someone else.

"Well," she began, trying for her normal tone but just sounding pained, "Let me start off by admitting that I have no idea where the pulse came from; who started it, or what powers it. I do know it is probably the single most powerful expenditure of magical energy the world has ever seen." She swayed, yet Bruce leaned out and caught her. She spared him a small smile, and kept going.

"As you can see, I'm a little out of it. To be honest, it feels a little like my mind is cracking open like a coconut. It gets worse with every spell. I don't know if it's like this for everyone, but I would be very careful with how everyone uses magic. Try not to. Or at least use it sparingly."

Her pupils dilated suddenly, and the room shrank to a tiny pinpoint before exploding outwards. She was nearly lost in the sensation, but just as her knees threatened to buckle underneath her, she heard _his_ voice, John's voice, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of her.

 _It's just a trick, luv. Isn't that what all magic is?_

She took a deep breath and the world righted, cemented into place by her hatred and dependence on John Fucking Constantine. "I'm meeting with several contacts, later," she said, as soon as she could. "As soon as I get something concrete, I'll pass it along. Once again, I beg everyone _not to use magic._ Otherwise, you're going to feel like Shazam and I look."

" _Jesus fucking Christ."_ All eyes turned to Green Arrow, who had just ripped off his domino in exasperation. "So instead of dancing around the obvious, let's just say it straight, yeah? You keep saying we've been compromised. Let me translate that for you: _we've been betrayed._ One of us—or more than one—has gone rogue, and doomed us all, and we're just round table discussing it, like _this_ little talk won't come back to bite us in the ass?"

" _Ollie,_ " the Flash hissed, grabbing his friend's arm. Arrow shook him off but Aquaman piped in, also through a monitor, before he could continue his rant.

"That's not the only answer, Oliver. Bruce, has the Watchtower been compromised?"

All throughout the meeting, Bruce had watched them with his signature, steely gaze, giving nothing away. He was one of the few dressed in full costume, although his wore his cowl back, revealing his face to everyone. He had taken the dissolvement of his secret identity and his entire secret life better than Zatanna had expected. Perhaps it was a testament to his emotional repression, or simply that he knew how little it all amounted to when the death count was this high.

Bruce shook his head. "The Watchtower has been on lockdown for repairs and overhaul for the last 5 days. No one has come in or out for more than 48 hours. Oracle and I have been going through security footage, and I can answer definitively that no one accessed any pertinent files from the Watchtower for the past six months. If information was taken away, it was taken prior to that, by someone who had the right to be there."

Wonder Woman broke in. "Has there been any word from Clark, J'onn, or Hal? Have they been warned? Will they be able to re-enter Earth's atmosphere, or will they be harmed?"

"Hal's fine, he's human." Barry Allen interjected.

"And wearing alien technology as a fashion statement," Oliver Queen muttered. "It's now gaudy _and_ dangerous!"

"I've left messages in the Watchtower," Bruce answered, ignoring them. "I can't contact them any more directly than that, but they should be alerted before they re-enter orbit. As to the lingering effects of the magic pulse . . ." He glanced over at Zatanna, who did her best to shrug.

"Still looking into that, Batman. I can't say about Hal, but I would say it's dangerous for Clark and J'onn to come home, although all I have to go on is how magic users still feel. Even if it doesn't kill them outright, it will probably be bad for them, too."

"Holey moley," Shazam groaned from across the table, his hood slipping back to reveal dark tufts of hair. "How are we gonna get them home?"

Green Arrow had clearly not calmed down, although he kept still enough that Barry let go of his arm. "Here's another fun thought to chew on. Why _did_ Shayera and Koriand'r survive? Not that I don't love the girls, 'cuz I really do, but what's so different about _them_ that kept them from snuffing it?"

Arsenal snarled at his foster father. "Shove off, old man. Kori's done nothing wrong, don't you dare try to make this about her!"

"Half the people we know and love are dead, Roy," he snapped back. "Don't be stupid. We have to examine all the goddamn angles—"

Roy broke formation and charged at Oliver, shoving through Jason Todd's attempt to restrain him. Kori, who could have stopped the whole debacle in a heartbeat simply watched them, eyes glazed over, arm wrapped protectively around her ribcage. Oliver surged forward to meet his foster son, and Barry, who was more than fast enough to stop them both, did nothing.

Dinah Lance did it for him. She let out a concentrated blast of her canary cry, directly in between Green Arrow and Arsenal. The two men stumbled back, clutching their ears.

Oliver recovered first, having built up a little more tolerance. "Damn, babe. We're not even in the bedroom—"

Black Canary had no time for her on again, off again boyfriend. "You are being children," she addressed them both. "This panic and distrust needs to _stop._ We have all lost someone—many someones—that we love, and unless we pull ourselves together and act like _heroes,_ we are going to lose more than just that."

In the moment of silence that followed, Shayera Hall piped up through her monitor, "Amen, sister."

Not willing to risk Dinah's rage, all the men in the room eyed the seething Black Canary askance. Wonder Woman growled in frustration, her tone distorting through the speakers. "How did we miss this? How did we not know such a force was moving against us? How can we _still_ not know anything about them?"

The Robin standing next to Jason—Red Robin, Timothy Drake, whose identity Zatanna had not definitively known but a child could have guessed, at this point—glanced up. "There were signs. Just not enough to piece everything together." His gaze cut down to the floor, his face twisting in pain. "And no one could have predicted the magical _death_ pulse."

Zatanna swallowed thickly, world spinning. _One_ person had predicted _something_ . . . but until she knew for certain whether Nick was just forecasting doom and gloom as usual or was actually involved, she would hold her tongue.

"Signs?" Arthur Curry leaned forward until he nearly was pressing against his camera. "What signs?"

Tim glanced at his mentor, and all eyes turned to Bruce, who took the floor, answering for him. "There were a few hints, but nothing obvious enough to explain what's happening now. At first they were oddities, but nothing too sinister: Bane went to ground, ignoring the relatively open playground of Gotham, with all its premier villains locked away in Arkham. Although he's not shown his hand, I would not be surprised if he had contributed to several of the murders."

"Bane doesn't have any beef with _us,"_ Oliver argued. "Just you."

Bruce glared at him. "There is also the matter of Lex Luthor's shady deals with the government."

"And do we know the extent of those deals? Could they have anything to do with the magic pulse? Can we safely assume Lex Luthor is the prime perpetrator?" Barry didn't often speak as quickly as he could, but Zatanna had trouble picking apart each sentence.

"Perhaps," Bruce replied. "There is also the chance that Luthor is genuinely moving to protect against the magic pulse. Remember the hold he has over Superboy, potentially a victim of the pulse. He would be hard pressed to give up a half-clone of himself." He hesitated before admitting, "There is also another angle."

He leaned over and placed a portable audio player on the tabletop. "Barbara mentioned that Talia al Ghul sent a recording a few weeks back. Damian and I were unable to decipher it. It seems to be no language recorded on Earth. This, in the light of her murder, may also point to Ra's. Or, as she later warned, an alien incursion."

"Or all three," Dinah said. "Is there any reason that Bane, Ra's al Ghul, and Lex Luthor couldn't work together, with or without aliens?" She gesticulated with one hand while her other rested against Ollie's bicep. Her touch seemed to calm him, but Zatanna could practically feel his anger and panic bubbling underneath his skin. Some people broadcasted like that. While it normally was distracting, today it was stabilizing. If she focused on his anger, it was easier to overlook how her perception of the world was unravelling.

"A valid question," Bruce allowed. "Possibly, although I doubt they could do so for long. Too many big egos running around in that group. We'll have a better idea soon. If it's Lex, he'll be all over the news in a matter of hours. If it's Ra's . . . he won't. Bane could go either way, and Gotham will be ready for him. Regardless, the League need to make a plan."

Shayera Hall grunted approvingly. "Damn straight! We need to plan a counterattack! We need to hit them fast and hard, show them their move didn't finish us off."

"Moving too quickly is worse than not moving at all, Shayera. We need to know who is behind this, first." Their monitors were at angles to each other, so John Stewart bestowed his disapproving glance on her, rather than the room. "I agree with the impulse, however, and we will make them regret this."

Others spoke then, offering advice and ideas but Zatanna could not hear them. She had not been able to tear her gaze away from the audio player since Bruce had set it down on the table, and now it commanded her entire attention. It was important, that much was obvious, but in her weakened state she couldn't tell whether it was the kind of important that would solve the mystery, or would detonate in a matter of minutes.

She had to know. Slowly she reached for it, brow furrowed with concentration. At the far edge of her consciousness, she became aware that Bruce was watching her, and Billy was fidgeting.

"Zatanna, wait. Ask Batman—"

"It's fine, Billy," Bruce cut in. "I'd like everyone to listen to it, just in case someone recognizes something."

Her fingers stretched the last half inch towards the device, and she thought she could hear the file already. Wasn't it already playing, whispering in a discordant chorus? She couldn't quite make it out. She hit play, and then leaned back.

She'd get it now, she knew she would.

It began with a crackle, like an old timey record player. There was a beat of silence. Before the silence could fully settle, however, a rising scream cut through, ending in a belligerent, guttural exclamation. It took everyone present aback, and Oliver Queen went so far as to nearly trip over his own feet in his initial surprise.

The scream was accompanied by an odd clicking noise, rhythmic as a pair of castanets. Across the table, Billy hunched over and began to moan. "No, no—please," he begged. "Turn it off. Turn it _off!"_

Zatanna knew all this was happening but could not see it, as all the world's colors and shapes had bled together and coalesced into a spinning ball. She gravitated towards it without meaning to, and the doom in her heart matched the agonizing pain in her head. Through the ball of light she felt rather than saw Billy collapse onto the table, body twitching as if he were having a seizure. That was fitting, Zatanna distantly supposed, as she was currently having a lobotomy. What was left of her brain was boiling in her skull. Not even John Constantine could save her now.

The inhuman voices rose and fell in tandem, and the ball of light went black. The world was ending all around her, yet she could still hear—and what she could hear was the _cadence_ of the voices. While she didn't know what they were saying, or what language they were saying it in, she knew that rhythm in her bones. She had been right, before. She _was_ sure of it, and all she'd had to do was press play.

" _It's a spell,"_ she forced out through lips that were as unyielding as blocks of wood. Then the sphere of darkness rushed in around her, and she knew no more.

...

...

...

 **June 21st, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 1:49 PM**

 **Day 1**

Jason leaned back against the wall and watched Dick's attempt to bridge the gap between Roy, Kori, and himself, and wondered if he'd have to step in. Probably not, as Wonder Boy was aptly named and had found nebulous ways to make almost everyone in the super community love him, hello and are you paying attention to this (for the second time today) Violet Lanterns. Still, he continued to watch as Dick's body language became more and more submissive, until Roy reared back and punched him hard in the gut. Dick took it, and then punched him right back.

Yeah, they were going to be just fine.

That worry assuaged, he tilted his head back and wondered how long this intermission would be. After Shazam and Zatanna had their magical seizure episode, Bruce had called a short break so that they could offer medical assistance to them, and for everyone to gather themselves and their resources. In that time, both Wonder Woman and Aquaman had offered to make their way there, and Bruce had agreed to wait for them. Most people had vacated the dining room pretty quickly, either to the Batcave or other rooms on the first floor of the manor. Jason and his Outlaws had taken up space in the sun room, and Dick had trailed after, seeking reassurance and punches in the gut, apparently.

There was, of course, another reason for Bruce to let everyone split off into little groups of twos and threes. Every inch of the Manor was bugged, and this was the best chance to monitor everyone for weak links, suicidal resolves, and betrayal. Green Arrow had been exactly right, although Brucie hadn't been too pleased with him showing his hand like that. As far as B could figure, there were at least two, if not three people in on this, judging by preliminary reports Oracle, Timmerson, and Bats had made up for how so many were able to be targeted in such a short amount of time. Furthermore, although Jason was not in on them, he was sure that Bats had his suspicions. He was equally sure that they were probably right.

Paranoia was the byword of the Batfamily, and it was for precisely these situations.

Speaking of family, Dick had had more than enough time with his outlaws. Jason sauntered over, ready to subtly redirect the flow of conversation, but he was distracted by the sight of Kori, standing near the baby grand piano, looking uncharacteristically glum. Seeing as how she was the wisdom and backbone of their trio, the expression sat badly with Jason. She had been the one to talk him down from what was effectively fratricide and patricide more than once, wisely teaching him that she was not defined by the men in her past, and neither was he. She was also the one who provided the most support to Roy during his ongoing battle with drug addiction, and that she looked so lost now was therefore unacceptable. Jason changed his plans accordingly. He wrapped an arm around her when he got close, steering her away from Roy and Dick, who now were arguing about something involving pop cans, mentos, and destroying the old City Hall. Trusting them to be reminiscing—he was fairly sure he'd heard that story before, and it definitely included Cyborg—he leaned over and squeezed Kori's arm gently.

"Hey, Princess," he murmured. "You know that Roy and I aren't going to let anything bad happen to you, no matter what the League decides. Don't let that shit with Roy's old man get to your head. No one in their right mind could suspect you, and that includes the rest of the League."

She glanced over at him and he gave her his warmest smile, the one that had the old Jason Todd at its edges. He finished with, "The three of us are family, Princess, and I'm not letting anything happen to _either_ of you."

" _Family,"_ Kori whispered, eyes alert and intently searching his. "You are sure?"

That took him aback. She hadn't known? They'd been together for almost 4 years now, living and fighting and making plans together. Hell, she and Roy were practically married, and she still had to ask?

Before Jason could assure her, however, Roy stepped in to do it for him, leaving his argument with Dick behind. "Of course we're family, babe!" He effused. "You're pretty much the reason why! I mean, not that I don't love Jason and all, 'cuz I totally do—even with that _hair_ —but you're what holds us together. Just like I'm what keeps you both sane, and Jason is what keeps us hoppin'. You know. _Family."_

Somehow, that all made perfect sense to Kori. She relaxed enough to smile at her lover, leaning in to kiss him on the mouth. The kiss continued for quite some time and finally Jason had to look away. He was fairly used to Roy and Kori kissing (and making out, and stripping, and sexing, for that matter) in front of him, but for once he wasn't their only unwitting audience, and he knew that Dick and Kori had once had a thing. Kind of a big thing, if Roy's jealousy and an old newspaper article announcing an engagement that never quite came to fruition was to be believed.

Watching his ex-fiancee and his old best friend carry on right in front of him probably wasn't easy, even for Dick-I-Spread-My-Love-To-All-And-Sundry-Grayson. Therefore Jason was surprised to find that Dick didn't seem to be all that concerned. In fact, he wasn't even watching them. Instead, he stared at Jason with a complicated expression, maintaining unwavering eye contact until Jason broke down.

"What?" He asked, and his tone was just as harsh as it should be. Ok, it was a little harsher than it should be, but Jason had not forgotten how Dick had broken down earlier, and there was no part of him that was willing to accept a repeat performance.

Dick tilted his head away from the kissing couple, and Jason hesitantly followed. They stepped out into the foyer where the checkered marble flooring gleamed. Alfred must have waxed the floors recently, Jason realized. Before he could ask where the old man was, (he hadn't seen him all day, and how many guests had been in the Manor?) Dick fixed him with a small scowl.

"How many families do you have, Jaybird?"

Jason shut his open mouth with an audible clack. Once, arguing with Dickie had been as easy as breathing. Now, with so many of their compatriots unable to do _that_ , it was harder. Also, he could not forget the tears, and he openly admitted that he, as a guy, was kind of weak to those.

"Is that what you really want to talk about?" He asked, incredulous.

Dick grimaced. "No. I just . . . What are you guys going to do? Are you going to do your own thing? Or are you going to stick close to Gotham?"

Oh. So that was it? Dick should know better by now, although Jason was kind of thankful he didn't. He shrugged. "Part of it depends on Roy's old man, or anyone else who's got a problem with Kori. If she's targeted, Roy and I are getting her the hell outta' Dodge. Until then . . . I guess we'll stick around. Do what needs to be done."

 _And what the rest of you won't_ was what he left unspoken. His tactics were an ongoing battle between him and most of the Batfamily, and while he was a stubborn jackass who was always up for a good argument, (or spar, or fight to the death, or whatever) even he knew this was not the time. Particularly not when Dick had him cornered in the entranceway to their childhood home, looking a little like he might burst back into tears at any moment. If that was the case he'd probably glom onto him like a weeping child again, and this time there was no Timina to deflect the inevitable consoling. Bruce would _definitely_ walk in again because that was how Jason's life went, and then his goose would be cooked and served because—

"Will you guys stay at the Manor?" Dick asked.

Jason's internal monologue broke off. That was a loaded question, in more ways than the obvious. Still, it couldn't hurt to start with exactly that. "Don't think I'd be all that welcome with the bossman, Dickie. Besides, Kori and Roy are a bit open with their sexuality, in case you couldn't tell. Doubt that would go over well with Alfred or the Demon Child."

" _Jason."_ And there was the look, the one that never failed to make Jason do exactly what he didn't want to do, and whatever Dick did. It was the look that took him back to his teenage years, when Dick was a total jerkface loser who could not dress himself like a normal person, for chrissakes, but was also the guy that Jason had secretly looked up to and not-so-secretly needed to keep him on the straight and narrow. The look was manipulation, pure and simple, and the worst part of all this was that Dick didn't mean it to be. It was just Dick being honest about what he wanted, and Jason being completely unable to deal with that.

 _Damn him and his powers of self-awareness,_ Jason internally grumbled.

He glanced to the side so he wouldn't have to look at him, but now he was remembering Cyborg's easy smile, and Kid Flash's brash sense of humor. Dick was reeling, that much was obvious. It made Jason want to agree, just so the natural order of things would be righted, but coming back felt like giving in; giving up on all the reasons why he chose to stay away in the first place.

Underneath the internal tug of war was a voice that sounded a bit like Bab's, reminding him of the obvious. _Our enemy is picking us off one by one. You were spared the first round. Who is to say that you, Kori, or Roy will not be targeted next time?_

This, of everything, made up his mind. "If Kori and Roy want to stay, we will," he sighed.  
"I'm going to be honest with them about the cameras though, and all the crap people don't expect about living with B. Also if the Demon Child attacks them for no good reason we are gone. _Gone,_ Dick. There is no negotiation on this."

Dick froze, looking up at him. He did not try to hide his surprise, nor, a moment later, his relief. "You—you're serious?"

"Don't make me repeat it. And don't make me ask B if it's ok. In fact, we're never speaking of this again, and—"

At the far end of the foyer, the front door swung open. Dick slipped into a defensive stance, and Jason aimed one of his modified pistols at the door, thumbing the safety. He brought the gun down immediately when Alfred Pennyworth stepped in out of the pouring rain, holding a three-year-old in his arms.

"There, now," he tutted, whisking out a handkerchief to wipe the face of the small boy he was carrying. "We're safe and sound, Master Michael. Soon to be dry, as well."

The boy picked up his head as Alfred fussed over him. "You talk funny," the toddler informed him. "We gonna fight more guys now? I like making 'em all wet."

Jason whistled as he reholstered his weapon. Alfred had _fought_ somebody? Damn, he'd pay good money to see that.

Alfred demurred, "No, we're safe now, and—"

"And wet!" The boy said delightedly. "We gotta shutta doors! I can do it. See!" He reached out with his tiny hand, his little fingers stretching wide. The corners of his mouth stretched down in a focused frown. After a moment, the rain outside coalesced into something with near-solid shape, pulling hard against the door handle. Everyone jumped when the door slammed shut behind Alfred. Tuckered out, the boy leaned back down against the butler's shoulder before popping his thumb in his mouth and sucking contentedly.

"Ten bucks the kid's a meta," Jason muttered out of the side of his mouth. Without sparing a glance for aim, Dick whacked him squarely in the stomach.

"Oh my," Alfred muttered as he hoisted the young boy to a slightly more secure position. "It seems that the young master's ancestry comes with some unexpected benefits."

In his arms, the newly orphaned Michael Wilson giggled delightedly around his thumb.

...

...

...

 **June 21st, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 2:37 PM**

 **Day 1**

Bruce activated the full security sequence as soon as Barry settled himself down at the Cave's roundtable. He kept his eyes on him for a moment longer, taking in the man's tight expression and clenched fists. He was close to the edge, but Bruce thought he wouldn't be the one to buckle under the pressure. Losing Wally was a terrible blow, but Barry had been tempered by losing Iris more than a year ago. Besides, the man was a natural protector. As long as he had someone to look after (and until Hal got back, it would likely be Oliver) he would remain strong himself.

Barry settled in between Oliver and Billy, and across from Diana and Arthur. The latter two had both made good time. Arthur had luckily been taking some time on shore when the disaster had struck, and Diana had broken speed records coming from Themyscira. Bruce could only hope the tragedy had not been repeated in their home countries.

Dinah wasn't present as she was helping Barbara, who would brief her on everything while they raced to keep what was left of the superhero community from collapsing. The women worked well together in Birds of Prey, and Bruce assumed they would have Helena, the 'third bird,' as she called herself, help as well. All good, as they were all people he trusted, and, along with the still-unconscious Zatanna and his own family, had rock-solid alibis for.

Finishing out that small list was John Stewart and Shayera Hall. Neither were present, of course, as it would blow their covers. John had his own set of rules to follow, in keeping with the game he'd been playing with Luthor for the last year. Shayera was acting as both his inside agent and protector, gathering information when John couldn't, and always assuming that Luthor was playing a more deadly game than even John expected.

John had returned to Luthor's camp and Shayera had fallen off the grid immediately after Billy and Zatanna's break down. They had been in contact with the League for less than an hour, and had never set foot in Wayne Manor. For now, that would have to be good enough to maintain their covers, and to assuage any of Luthor's distrust.

Beyond them, Bruce kept his eyes wide open. He knew that they had been betrayed like he knew his own name, and he would not rest—could not rest—until he had pinpointed exactly who had done it. Apart from Barbara and his boys, these were the only people he could trust.

Even then, he would watch them all carefully.

With a glance at Bruce, Arthur opened up the floor. "If I may, I'd like to call for a moment of silence for Victor and all the others."

"Agreed." Oliver and Diana chimed in, glancing at each other in surprise. For once, they were in perfect accord. All heads bowed, and Bruce observed them from his peripheral vision. Arthur was the only one who openly prayed, lips moving in an Atlantean psalm. Barry, in a reflection on his Midwestern, more traditional upbringing, might be praying as well, but Oliver just closed his eyes, brow furrowed in thought. Bruce was unsure of how Amazons prayed, but he suspected it was not like Diana was doing now. She was silent and quivering with anger, hands clenched at her sides, ready to mete justice out for the souls of their fallen friends, and comrades.

Billy was the last, and he was not so much praying as struggling to remain upright. Just thirty minutes ago his vomit had been tinged pink, and he was currently equipped with Bruce's own portable IV drip, carefully tucked away in the folds of his robes. He was clearly suffering, but he did his best to stick to the agreement he had made with Bruce this morning, half an hour before the rest of the League had been invited.

" _Your identity is safe,"_ Bruce had told him. " _Lying about your surname and age in the Watchtower database was a smart move. By now they know your name isn't William Davis, but only because they killed all twenty-two adults in the USA with that name last night. It will only be a matter of time before they discover who you truly are. When that happens, you'll be denounced like the rest of us."_

" _I can't accept that,"_ Billy had said sadly. _"Why should I be spared?"_

Bruce did not agree. " _What they don't know, they cannot control. With any luck, they won't discover that we lied about your age, as well. You'll have to give up your name, but under no circumstance show_ anyone _your actual identity. There are only two adult William Batsons in the US, and they'll hardly believe you're 18 or 82, but we need as large a margin for error as possible. Stay as Shazam the entire time if you can. I promise you, it will pay off."_

" _But Diana already knows, and Clark too!"_ Billy protested.

" _She'll keep the secret. As will he, when he returns."_

" _What about the others?"_ Billy had asked, hesitantly. _"Can't we trust them? Even if it's just the core League members?_

" _No, Billy. You must trust no one. Only yourself."_

Billy was nothing if not stalwart. His magic was debilitating, but only when he was Shazam. A quick change back in the bathroom after his vomiting spell was over had proven the effects did not carry over to his natural form. That went along with Zatanna's suspicion that the pulse was still targeting magic users, and likely alien life forms as well. Clark and J'onn couldn't come back until they had gotten to the bottom of this, and by God, did Bruce ever mean to.

Arthur's head rose, prayer over, and Bruce took that as his signal to begin. "Diana, Arthur, status report on Atlantis and Themyscira. Are your people safe? Have the effects of the magic pulse reached them?"

Ever the gentleman, Arthur gestured for Diana to take the floor. She nodded to him in thanks. "My people are safe, for now. No attack was made on the island as far as we can tell, yet the existence, if not the location, of Themyscira was mentioned on the news when they unveiled me, and I fear that will bring too much attention to the lost isle of the Amazons." She hesitated, then shook her head and continued. "About the magic pulse . . . it may be affecting the island. Not the people, but the protections laid in place to keep the island unassailable."

Billy winced. "Your home is protected by magic? Uh oh . . ."

"Not entirely," she returned. "The protection is from the gods, and their magic is—"

"Exactly what powers Shazam," Oliver cut in, with his characteristic abruptness. Rudeness, in Bruce's opinion. "I mean, we've all heard him say it. Strength of Hercules, power of Zeus . . . and we can all see how fantastic he's feeling."

Diana fixed him with a quelling look, and he trailed off.

"As I was saying," she continued, "The gods' power are above and beyond even the most powerful human practitioner, but our priestesses communed with Hera before I left and her message was not optimistic. While the pulse is not strong enough to undo our protection outright, it is slowly eroding it. Given enough time, even the gods' protection will be undone. We need to discover and defeat the enemy quickly, or my people will be at the mercy of man's world for the first time in millennia. _I will not let that happen."_

She finished with a side glance at Bruce, and while her message was not overt, it was received. Over the years of their friendship, Clark and Diana and he had spent collective weeks discussing contingency plans, and while Diana was loathe to give away many details about her homeland, she had been very interested in Bruce's tactics and ideas. He remembered what he had most strongly advised in the hypothetical situation that Themyscira was discovered. He suspected she had already put that plan, or something very like it, into place.

Attention turned to Arthur. "I bear slightly better news," he said. "As far as I can tell, this magic pulse does not affect Atlanteans, nor our own brand of magic. Atlantis is safe and there is no sign of attack, either physical or magical. I have given warning, but there was no reported sickness even among the most prolific mages, nor fluctuation in power of . . . of what keeps Atlantis protected."

"Do you think being underwater helps? Perhaps the magic can't pass through liquids the same way it passes through gasses or solids?" Barry drummed his fingers against the tabletop, a rapid fire rhythm too fast to find a pattern in.

"Perhaps," Arthur allowed. "I hypothesize that it is more closely tied to the subtle biological differences between human and Atlantean, as I was on land—and therefore unprotected by water—when the pulse went out."

Oliver snorted. "That's convenient."

Arthur's jaw set, but that was the only sign of his annoyance. "I had come up at dawn to visit my father's grave and then to meet with Jackson and his young son. I had hoped that together, we'd find a way to convince Rose into letting their son explore some of his Atlantean heritage." Arthur's face crumpled with sorrow. "Now it doesn't matter. I suppose the boy is dead, even though it was kept off the news. Poseidon watch over him."

Bruce watched his comrade for a long moment. "Michael Wilson is not dead."

Arthur's head shot up. "What? Michael lives? Bruce, are you sure?"

Bruce nodded. "Forgive me for not making this public, but I thought it best to consider the boy's safety. The call Rose placed before she died wasn't to Deathstroke, it was to the boy's daycare. One of my covert operatives retrieved him, and brought him to the Manor about twenty minutes ago."

"That's great news," Barry noticed, glancing over at Arthur. "Jesus, at least something good happened today."

"Alfred has offered to watch over him in the Manor," Bruce offered. "We thought it safest, although if Michael could handle it, it may be better for the boy to go back to Atlantis."

Arthur smiled, yet it more clearly outlined his pain. "Thank you, Bruce. I don't know if being one-quarter Atlantean will be enough. I'll have to test the boy after this."

"That won't piss Slade Wilson off? His only surviving grandchild haring off to Atlantis?" Oliver glanced around the table as he spoke. "Remember how well he took Rose's dalliance with Jackson in the first place? Pretty sure that's why they never got married; Rose was probably too worried Daddy Deathstroke would do a number on the hubby."

Arthur's expression turned to stone. "Let Slade come after the boy if he dares. I will protect him."

" _We_ will protect him." Diana reached out, lightly touching Arthur on the arm. "Just as we will protect all others still left in our care. Bruce, what news on civilian casualties? Were we the only ones targeted?"

"Apart from a number of unluckily named civilians, yes," he replied. "There were a number of terrorist strikes in Metropolis around the same time, but Luthor has mobilized Metropolis's defenses and as governor, has declared martial law. So far it's worked to keep the panic down. Until our enemies reveal themselves, or we reveal _them_ , we're at a standstill."

"And our undercover agents?" Diana kept her gaze on Bruce as she spoke, not caring for the effect her question might have on others in the room.

"Staying in position," Bruce said quietly. "We're watching them closely, however, for their protection, and ours."

"Waitwait _wait._ We had undercover _agents?_ Like, watching Luthor and Ra's and all that?" Oliver looked from Bruce to Diana with his usual pout when something wasn't going his way. Bruce knew that was an unfair way of seeing it, but he and Oliver had known each other since their youth when they had attended Charles Agatha Drummonds Boarding School for Boys only two years apart. They had not always been fond each other. In fact, Bruce being _Batman_ was probably what annoyed Green Arrow the most—he was one of the few people in the room who had not realized that Bruce was Bruce _Wayne_ until this morning.

"We do," Bruce admitted stonily. "Forgive me for not going into more detail about them, or their mission. I can assure you I am not the only one directing them. Clark, Hal, Dinah, Barbara, and Diana are or were also doing so."

Oliver sputtered, and Bruce felt slightly sorry for Dinah, who'd have to bear the brunt of his whining. Next to him, Barry looked up quickly, an odd expression flashing across his face. Bruce blamed Hal for his faulty circumspection. Clearly he had let something slip, but perhaps the whole scenario had been too obvious. Barry had fostered a crush on Shayera, after all. The man was bound to notice something.

"And even with them in place we were unable to prevent this?" Arthur's question was not as pointed as it could have been, and Bruce was grateful for that much. They had been looking for this for months, and still had found nothing. He would never stop blaming himself for this, just as he could never forgive himself for Jason's death.

"Yes, and it's more than just that," Bruce clenched his hand into a fist, unable to hide all of his frustration. "Victor and Barbara had been combing Luthor's assets for months and could not find where all the money had been channeled to. Now the only clues we have to go on are tabloids, an indecipherable recording, and the mounting death count. We have pieces of the puzzle, but until I have more of them, I can't put it together fast enough. This is my failure. I cannot apologize enough for not catching any of this in time. I am sorry. I—"

The shock of hearing Batman apologize so fervently immobilized everyone but Billy. Hesitantly he laid on hand on Bruce's shoulder, holding it there until Bruce looked over at him. Then he pulled it back, looking like he'd done something wrong.

"Er—it's ok, Batma—Bruce. It's not your fault—not _our_ fault. If we blame ourselves they're just gonna win, and we're the ones who gotta make it right."

"Make it right," Bruce repeated, and only the knowledge that Billy was 18 years old kept him from making his tone as scathing as it could have been.

"I mean, this is bad," Billy continued. "Maybe the worst we've ever faced, but I still believe in you, and in us. I still believe in the League, even if it's taken a hit. We'll just have to make a New League."

"A new league," Bruce repeated again, as if doing so would make more sense. Was Billy's health worse than he knew, to babble on like this?

Billy finished with, "Look, we gotta have faith, 'cuz if we don't, how is anyone else going to? So just . . . c'mon. Be Batman, 'cuz Batman always brings us through."

Something in Billy's stuttering earnestness brought out the best in Oliver. Brusquely, he shoved his hand palm down into the center of the circle, and rolled his eyes when everyone simply stared at him.

"Oh come _on_ guys," he said. "Billy set that up for us, now we gotta team it up. You know, League style. Well, New League style. Or whatever we want to call us, just get your damn hands in the center and let's pump ourselves up!"

After a moment, Barry and Arthur extended their hands, and Billy laid his on top. Diana followed suit with a small smile. All looked at Bruce who watched the hands pile up with no small amount of self-loathing.

Finally, he placed his hand on top of the pile.

The New League had been formed.

…

…

….

…

...

 **Personal note: I went with Jackson Hyde rather than Kaldur'ahm because that's how I was introduced to the character, rather than the smoking hot Young Justice counterpart. Not that it matters, now. RIP Half of DCU :(**

 **I straight up made up the boarding school Bruce and Ollie went to. I think I also made up the fact that they went to boarding school together, but at this point things have been retconned so many times that I honestly do not know. It is a mystery.**

 **Michael Wilson is the ONLY O.C. in this fic (apart from the bad guys, and even then . . . well, you'll see). He's not going to be a ridiculously overpowered toddler, no worries.**


	3. Ch 2 - Fallout

**Note** **—** **we're pretending that no one other than Hal and Ollie ha** **ve** **met Appa Ali Apsa. Please, and thank you.**

 **Also, in this lovely Elseworld I am imagining, Dinah and Ollie have never been married (but not for lack of trying on Ollie's part, as you shall see.)**

 **I went with Ted Kord as Blue Beetle, rather than Jaime Reyes, and instead of having both of them in the continuum, let's pretend Ted was never killed. There are too many characters** **for my brain as it is.**

 **Now on with the show.**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Fallout**

* * *

 **June 22nd, 20xx**

 **Oa, 3rd hour of 'morning' by their reckoning**

 **Day 2**

 **...**

 **...**

At the heart of the Milky Way galaxy, Clark Kent entertained dark thoughts about the Green Lantern Corps.

 _At the edges of his concentration, a door whooshed open and a familiar voice said,_ _"Hey, J'onn. Woah. What's with big and brooding over there?"_

He knew his discontent was unmerited. They had done much good while they were here, and had presented a strong, dignified representation of Earth's power and diplomacy at the same time. The Oans were nothing but friendly, wise, and ready to teach them anything they desired. Even their accommodations were thoughtful. Large and spacious, each with their own room, and they were not lit by the green flame that was otherwise everywhere on Oa, and on their ships. This way, even J'onn with his instinctual fear of fire could be at ease.

 _Outside the realm of his thoughts, another familiar voice rumbled,_ _"He's just thinking, Hal. Leave him be."_

Clark's disquiet sprang from this: there was no mission. At least, not as far as he could see. The Oans spoke of the Ikons, an ancient enemy recently awoken. They were dangerous beings that had, eons ago, come close to ruling over the entire universe. From their humble beginnings on a small planet in the Cosmos Redshift 7 galaxy, they had utilized cloak and dagger guerilla tactics, rather than wage all out war.

If they were a modern-day threat, those tactics must be still in use, however, as they were nowhere to be found. Their homeland was deserted, and there was no trace of them throughout the galaxy. This was the eighth planet they had combed for any clues as to their whereabouts, and Clark was getting a little antsy. It was clear that the Ikons were not here. How many more planets, solar system, or even _galaxies_ would they have to investigate before they found any trace of them or their plans?

 _A clear baritone infringed on the edges of his awareness._ _"Just saying, he might go and break the window with all that brooding. Bats certainly would. Actually, Bats would be proud, right about now. Probably taught him everything he knows."_

According to old Oan legends, the Ikons were a race steeped in dangerous magic, and had used such magic to bend other worlds to their will. While they were at the height of their power, the Oans had pushed them back with the help of several other races—thus laying the framework for the first Green Lantern Corps—yet several turns of their world ago (about eight months, Earth time) a few archaeologists had uncovered startling prophecies.

It was impossible to be sure, but they thought several planets in the Milky Way galaxy might be targeted. Clearly, more investigation was needed. The other Lantern warriors on Earth were busy with their own missions, so they looked to Earth's premier delegate, along with a few of his friends.

 _All this was fine and good,_ Clark thought, and nothing had changed his resolve to protect Earth even before the danger stretched that far. Yet this was chasing shadows, and something he had never been good at. _Bruce_ was good at this kind of thing, and—

Wait, had Hal walked in while he was thinking?

He turned just as Hal raised a hand to clap him on the shoulder, a grin splitting his face at Clark's rapid turn.

"Ah, _now_ you hear me, buddy," Hal said. "Are you done brooding, or should I start running really, really fast?"

Clark sighed in exasperation. Several of Hal's friends from the Lantern Corps had docked on their spaceship last night, and his mood had risen proportionately. It was a little unnerving to see him smile. While they had worked together in the League for years now, and Clark had a great deal of faith in Hal, he hadn't had too much experience with the Lantern side of Hal. Nor the side of him that could only be termed giddy. Perhaps this was what he was like with Ollie and Barry? It was definitely not the way he was with Bruce, Diana, or Arthur.

Shaking his head, Clark asked, "Hal, is there any word on the missing Ikons? Anything? At _all?_ "

Hal winced, and J'onn floated closer. "Not as such," he admitted. "Although I do have some good news. Or, well, interesting news. Ok. It's probably not _bad_ news . . . "

Even J'onn looked askance at that. "What's not bad news?" He asked.

"Hey, any news at all is welcome, by this point." Hal grinned up at the Martian and then activated his ring so that he could float up to their level. Clark glanced down, surprised. He hadn't realized he'd been floating too. He must be more distracted than he'd thought.

Hal continued, "Anyway, the news is this: an old guardian has called us out for a secret rendezvous. If anyone knows the truth about what's going on—and don't get me wrong, I love the Oans but something about this is a little sketchy—it'll be him."

"Can we trust him?" J'onn's low, monotone voice was a comforting contrast after the reed thin Oan voices, and Hal's natural expressivity.

Hal shrugged. "He's . . . mostly a good guy. He kind of looks like he's been sticking fingers into electrical sockets, and he gets a little lost in the mysteries of 'The Universe' from time to time, but he's reliable, and always wants to do the right thing. And he's a big Earth fan. So I'd say yes."

"When do we meet?" Clark asked.

"After we scout. We'll take our time coming back, and he'll hit us up then. So after we're called, we stay together, and then—"

Hal cut off, inadvertently clenching his hand into a fist. A moment later, it began to glow with a soft green light, emanating from the ring. They were being hailed.

He grinned. "Perfect timing. Let's do our thing and then get to the bottom of this, yeah? Then we can go _home."_

They flew out the door, merging with the mass of Corps members making their way to the docking bays. Happy to have a plan at last, Clark grinned over at Hal just before they became lost in the throng. "Missing Carol?" He teased. "Or is it all that Oan cuisine that has you anxious for home?"

An odd expression flashed across Hal's face when Carol was mentioned, but he covered it up with, "Clark, I haven't had a cheeseburger in months. Do not bait me unless you are offering me one, is all I am saying . . . "

* * *

 **June 22nd, 20xx**

 **Oa, 1st hour of 'afternoon' by their reckoning**

 **Day 2**

 **...**

 **...**

It had been a few years since Hal had seen Appa Ali Apsa, but he hoped the little goon was just the same as ever. Well, the same as he'd been when he'd taken human form and road tripped it across the continental US with him and Ollie, a few years back. Not when he'd gone a little nuts and tried to implement himself as a God. Hopefully, those days were over . . . and Appa wasn't feeling nostalgic enough to mention them.

(Christ, that would be awkward.)

No, what Hal was banking on never changing about Appa was his insatiable need for knowledge, and finding the core of truth in a mystery. Knowledge was sacrosanct to him, and Hal hoped he'd have something to work off of. Otherwise, Clark and J'onn may get distracted by the eccentricities of his past history, and not on the validity of his information.

The bottom line was this: if the Mad Guardian knew what the hell was really going on, he would trust him. Even if Hal had firsthand experience of why he had earned that nickname.

The rendezvous cave was on the other damn side of the planet, and after twenty minutes of flying at super speed over desert, more desert, and oh, that's a lovely patch of desert over there, Hal's eyes were spinning from all the beige. Green was by no means his favorite color, (he favored orange, as a matter of fact, and then a nice sky blue) but the strain was enough that he was ready to head back to the Oan ship to be inundated by emerald.

Just as he was about to call a circle back, sure they had missed the slight indent that signalled the underground cave, he saw it—a flash of blue against the beige. It was Appa, waving them down. He signalled to Clark and J'onn and they spiralled down, kicking up small dust devils in their haste.

The ancient Oan awaited them in the middle of a dry, dusty cave, which was mercifully far cooler than the heat of the desert above them. He stood with his feet spread in a wide-legged stance, his bony hands clutching a wooden, knob-ended walking stick. Had Hal not known him to be an immensely powerful and only occasionally lucid entity, he would have underestimated him as a doddering old man. Maybe he should have given Clark and J'onn a bit more warning?

 _Nah,_ he chuckled to himself. _They're supers for a reason._

As soon as all three landed Appa spread his arms in greeting. "Welcome. I apologize for my lack of formality, but there is not much time. I have only just learned the truth, and I feel honor-bound to present it to you before convincing my brethren."

" _Ok_ _,"_ Clark noticed in an undertone. " _Hal, how trustworthy is this guy again?"_

Rather than replying—Clark probably wouldn't like the answer, to be honest—Hal stepped forward. "Thanks, Appa. We'll take anything you can get. Looking for these damned Ikons is starting to feel like a wild goose chase."

Appa stiffened. "It both is and isn't what you would deem a 'wild goose chase.' The Ikons are indeed the enemy we all seek. They are simply not where we expected them to be."

"Their homeworld was deserted," Clark said. "As is this one. As have been all the others. How did you determine where they were headed when no one else could?"

"You been deciphering prophecies in your spare time?" Hal jibbed.

"Of course not," Appa sniffed. "I simply followed an unfortunate hunch. There, I found traces of their presence. So yes, I know precisely where they are."

"Yet your people do not," J'onn pointed out.

"They do not believe," the old Oan replied. "They do not wish to admit that in relying on the prophecies, they have allowed the Ikons to set up their first wave."

"First wave?" Hal asked, wondering how long Appa was going to keep up his cryptic schtick and get to the goods.

The answer was apparently now. Appa settled his hands back over the knob of his walking stick and began his lecture. "The Ikons attack in several distinct waves. The first is comprised of a small group of shapeshifters; the most adept and powerful in diverse types of magic. They are sent to the projected planet to ease the way for the oncoming army. They target and eliminate the most powerful of the world's protectors, leaving the world open to attack.

"All this after months of selecting important individuals, observing them, learning all they possibly can about them, and then capturing and testing them in horrific ways, all so that they can witness their reactions and motivations." Appa continued. "After they kill them, they assume their lives. They become the faces everyone turns to when the rest of their heroes and protectors die. They are the ones that promise the people salvation in the form of the second wave, the cavalry of the Ikons. The natives of the planet are then annihilated, and the world empty for takeover."

Hal shifted uncomfortably, but neither Clark nor J'onn moved.

Appa continued, "While they can rely on the invaded world's weapons and resources, not excluding the necessary propaganda, and warriors under control of their stolen forms; only one major weapon is utilized by the first waves: a magical 'pulse' that was stolen from a race destroyed long ago. It is a two-fold weapon. It provides defense by precluding any alien life form—save those with DNA attuned to its frequencies—from arriving on the planet, while also bestowing invincibility to the first wave of Ikons. It also is an offensive weapon as well—"

" _Of course it is,"_ Clark muttered, and Hal suspected that he saw the issue too. If this magical pulse barred any alien lifeforms from reaching the planet, what good would it do for them to be there?

Appa gave him a serene look before continuing. "Not only does it bar all aliens from reaching the planet, it will kill off any existing alien whose DNA is not resonant with the magic. In essence, when the pulse goes off, it will kill off any non-native and non-Ikonic lifeform on the planet."

"That is unfortunate, _"_ J'onn muttered. "And it makes a counterattack much more difficult."

"Well, how does it work?" Hal asked, eying his friends nervously. Somehow, he was beginning to regret bringing them all here, even though he knew they could not move forward until they better understood the threat they were facing.

"It is powered by the natural magic of the invaded world, and more so the mages of the native species. It leeches their power and stability, leaving them unable to move against the Ikons, as well as sacrificing their mental and physical health."

Hal groaned. That was both incredibly specific and not at all helpful. He narrowed his eyes and asked, "Anything _helpful_ you can tell us, Appa?"

"All of my information is helpful," the ancient Oan replied with a frown. "But if you must be so impatient, I can tell you where they are."

"That's not above our pay grade?" Clark snarked.

Appa, either not registering the comment or not caring, gave them all a pitying look. "The pulse was activated two days ago, as far as I can tell. Judging by the erratic behavior of the planet's magical signature, it can't be more than that. This is most fortunate news, as otherwise—"

"Appa," Hal interrupted. "Just tell us where they are, will you?"

"Oh," Appa murmured. "I thought you'd determined that already. Earth. They're on Earth."

* * *

 **June 22nd, 20xx**

 **Earth, Metropolis 7 O'Clock News**

 **Day 2**

 **...**

 **...**

The news anchor was young, blonde, and beautiful, but she had a pleasingly low voice that gave her a measure of gravitas.

"We can't express how grateful we are that you're here with us tonight, Mr. Luthor," she began, and no one watching doubted her sincerity. "The overnight collapse of America's superhero community has shaken the country's foundation, yet you're one of the few who is willing to pick up the pieces, and perhaps attract the wrath of whoever or _whatever_ targeted them. Can you explain your decision to take up Superman's reins?"

If the reference to his nemesis nettled him, the cameras didn't pick it up. Luthor merely smiled at the woman, just enough to be friendly, but not enough to be taken as insensitive.

"It wasn't really a conscious choice, not in a time like this. This is a terrible blow not only for America, but for the world. I grieve for what and who we have lost—some of the world's best and brightest heroes. I cannot be but thankful that several of us, both civilians and superheros alike, have been preparing for just such an emergency for years. This was simply the time when America needed us to step into the void and protect humanity."

"And can you go into more detail about what that would entail?"

"Only a little. My confederates and I have been working closely with the US government to implement programs that would be able to provide the protection generally supported by superheroes, without providing the same . . . enticement to destroy them. Seeing as how no one other than a super has been harmed since the attacks, I can only guess that the enemy's hatred is based towards them alone. So far our tactics have proven successful in keeping civilians safe. Beyond that I'm afraid I must keep mum. You understand."

"Of course," she agreed, nodding as her eyes track minutely over to the teleprompter. "Now to change tracks slightly. The _enemy,_ as you called them. Mysterious as they are, the media has, somewhat irreverently, taken to calling them Iconoclasts. What do _you_ know about them?"

Luthor nodded. "Yes, I'd heard. A morbid but fitting name, I suppose, if you imagine superheroes to be gods. I know little more than you, however. Since they have struck they have remained perfectly concealed, leaving no trace, making no demands. It is as if they were ghosts. Even the use of a plural pronoun is an assumption, based on how many 'they' were able to murder in such a short span of time."

The news anchor nodded. "And is there any advice that you can offer our viewers?"

"Of course." He linked his fingers together and looked directly at the camera before saying. "I know that this is a very difficult, and very frightening time for all of us. It is a very serious crisis. Yet people of America, _please do not panic._ The Iconoclasts, as they have been termed, show absolutely no interest in upsetting our way of life beyond their attacks on our superheros. Those left behind are far from helpless, and the government's countermeasures will keep you safe. Trust in us. Depend on us. _All will be well._ "

The news anchor began nodding along with him before he finished. "And is there anything we can do to help our heroes?"

"Well, the worst thing you could do is to put yourself at risk," he pointed out. "If there is a way to discreetly assist, it is probably to keep calm. Putting yourself in danger will just make the situation worse, and yourself a target. Leave as much as you can to the professionals. The government and what is left of the superhero community will address the Iconoclasts and defeat them, as they have always done, in due time. Until then, you must support them with your belief."

Her eyes flicked once behind him, reading the signal to wrap up. "One more question, Mr. Luthor. _Has_ there been news on Superman? Any word on when he's coming home?"

There was a tiny flicker in his left eye only, like a light had passed over a reflecting glass. Then it was gone, and that warm, meaningless smile was back. "I doubt I'd be the one he'd contact. Mr. Wayne—I'm sorry, _Batman_ would be a better guess. But I can tell you what I will do. I will work my hardest to ensure that there is a world for him to come back _to."_

The news anchor's smile was warm, but professional. "Thank you once again, Mr. Luthor."

"My pleasure."

* * *

 **June 22nd, 20xx**

 **Washington, D.C., 9:19 PM**

 **Day 2**

 **...**

 **...**

Diana Prince paced through her apartment one last time, making sure everything was unplugged and put away. She was taking very little with her, although she would be gone for longer than she'd like. As long as Themyscira was in danger—to say nothing of the World of Man—she was loathe to leave at all. But there was a realm that was in more danger than theirs, and if it was taken, all was lost.

The only point of gratitude was that Themyscira's evacuation plans were well underway. The size and location of the fabled city of the Amazons had been brought up again and again on all the news programs she'd watched today, and Oracle had assured her it was impossible to move too soon. Scattered amongst various pre-selected bunkers, safe houses, and secluded communities around the globe, her people would not be hidden as well as they were now, but they would be less of a target than had they remained on the island.

The gods' protection was failing them, and there was no other choice. Diana could only pray that Bruce and the New League were able to destroy these 'Iconoclasts' and their magic pulse quickly enough so that everyone might be able to return home undiscovered.

 _If wishes were fishes,_ she told herself, thinking of something she'd heard Barry say, once. That made her think of Arthur, and their mission. As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

"Diana? Are you ready? She heard him call through her deceptively thick door. Although it looked like a modern, sparsely tasteful apartment, it was decked out with state of the art surveillance and a few unexpected defense systems. It was part of why she had decided to come here after the Iconoclasts had attacked, wanting to put a few things in order.

 _No,_ she thought in answer to his question. Hera help her, but nothing could prepare her for what she was about to do. None of that was Arthur's fault, however, so she opened the door and invited him in.

Arthur's eyes widened at the sight of her. "What happened?"

There was no point in trying to cover her defensive wounds. The bruises coloring her face, chest, and legs, the slice of a dagger along her upper bicep and another just above her left bracelet, and the stench of burning flesh and synthetic material that inundated her apartment.

"Assassins with kill-switches," she growled.

Arthur stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He frowned as he reached for her arm, hesitating before he could touch her. Knowing he was far too much of a gentleman to touch her without permission, no matter how perfunctory the inspection, she turned her arm on her own, showing him the full length of the wound.

"You're going to have to be more succinct than that," he said, grave as always.

It had been a danger to come back here alone, as the five scorch marks on the roof of her apartment attested to. The agents had been lying in wait for her, but she had torn through them with righteous rage. She was lucky she had drawn them away from her apartment, and onto the rooftop. Otherwise the stench would have been unbearable.

Diana pursed her lips. "Five assassins targeted me once I crossed into Washington, D.C. The first I knocked unconscious. The second I captured with my lasso, but as soon as I did so the rest . . . exploded. Likely so we could not capture and interrogate any of them."

He wrinkled his nose. "That explains the odor."

"I apologize for the smell," she said. "I showered, but it's hard to cut the scent."

Arthur's expression was grim, and his gaze rested on her wounds. Diana knew he hated the sight of her injuries more than most. It was the same for Shayera, Dinah, and all the other ladies in the League. It was not sexism, as he had the utmost respect for them and their abilities. He was simply a traditional gentleman, and he hated to see women getting hurt. Sometimes, this made her angry. Other times, it made her wonder why more men were not like that.

"Have you let Bruce know?" He asked.

Diana nodded. "He said to continue on with our mission. He's hoping we reach Atlantis with no more serious attempts on our lives."

For that was the mission of utmost importance. Atlantis, with its non-human magic, must be preserved. Arthur had told her and Bruce enough of his homeland's magic that it had become their first priority. Were the Iconoclasts able to gain control over it, the war would be over, and Earth would belong to them in more ways than one.

Diana was the only one who could help Arthur in Atlantis, and only after striking a deal with one of her gods. The deal had been . . . unpleasant, and she had been placed in a terrible position. _A veritable rock and a hard place,_ she mused. She would not reflect on it now, lest it weaken her. It had been the hardest decision she'd ever had to make, and failure was untenable.

"Not many of us were targeted twice. I don't understand their methods," Arthur mused, speaking too quietly for anyone to overhear, as she locked the apartment behind her. "Apart from the unmasking, of course. Some, like the Red Hood and his Outlaws were left alone. You and I both had no trouble fighting off our attackers, and the same could be said for Barry and Oliver. Yet they took down two Green Lanterns, Victor, and Wally! It just doesn't make sense."

Diana looked directly at him, her bearing as regal as his. "Don't avoid the truth, Arthur," she said, in the same low volume. "There may have been different methods of attack, each with varying levels of success, but we both know that betrayal must have factored into this. I would guess for all those you've named, they were killed by someone close to them. Someone they trusted implicitly."

Arthur sighed roughly. "There are few of us that fit that description."

"That is why it is so hard to bear."

"I worry most about Bruce," Arthur said in a dark tone.

Diana frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"He wasn't targeted, Diana," Arthur explained. "And perhaps it's because his true identity is so well-known, so powerful, in and out of Gotham. Or perhaps it's because they want us to wonder why he and his family were left largely unmolested."

"You can't be saying he's the traitor," Diana breathed.

Arthur drew back. "Of course not! You and I and the rest of the League know better, but those don't know might wonder. There may be some who survived the purge who are lying low, afraid to pledge their loyalty to someone who they fear has betrayed us."

"It's not Bruce," she said stubbornly. "That goes against everything he is."

That made Arthur smile, and his blue eyes softened. "I agree with you. That's why I'm worried. If our enemy tricks us into doubting him, I fear we are lost."

"If they trick us into doubting one another we are lost," Diana corrected. "Not just Bruce. We have to trust each other. You and I most of all."

Arthur stopped and looked at her. He was every inch a king, even when standing in the dimly lit hallway of her apartment complex. She understood and appreciated his essence of regality. That, along with his moral integrity—no to mention his astounding power in and around the water—were two important reasons why she had enjoyed working with him in the past.

"Diana," he began, quietly, "I want you to understand that even if every other member of the League were able to accompany me to protect my homeland, you would have been my first choice. You would always be my first choice. Not just because of your power, and your intelligence, and your upbringing, but because I consider you my friend. I trust you entirely, and not least because I know you will not embarrass yourself in a culture that is not your own."

His speech was concluded with a little smile, lightening his content. Still, it was heartfelt enough that she had to look away for a moment, just to still herself. There was something powerful in Arthur's regard, and after all these years she was still not quite immune to it.

"I'm glad to hear that, Arthur," she said. "Truth be told, I don't wish to leave Themyscira, nor the World of Man. Accompanying you makes it bearable." As they stepped into the elevator, she gave him her the closest thing to a smile she could manage. "And it's nice to hear that I'm your favorite in the League."

"Well, I am fond of Barry, as well," he admitted. "But he would be little use to us on the bottom of the seafloor." Arthur flashed her a small smile, and it sparked a moment of attraction within her. She was aware of Arthur, but it was something containable, something she could fight down. That frisson of interest reminded her of who she had no defenses against.

 _Where are you, Clark?_ She asked herself as the elevator doors closed in front of them. _We need you._ I _need you. Please stay safe, and find a way to come home._

* * *

 **June 23rd, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 6:18 AM**

 **Day 3**

 **...**

 **...**

Zatanna leaned her head against the glass, feeling the reverberation of the train through her entire body. Dark shapes whizzed by, all punctuated by the soft glare of underground lighting. She was exhausted, and the day would only get more tiring as it went on. It had taken her several hours to reach the subway, especially as she could not travel through her normal means. John had once taught her how to travel in his effortless manner, although she'd never been so good at it as he was. Now, exhausted, disheartened, and with her magic hounded by some inexplicable force— _spell,_ she reminded herself—she had no choice but to travel like a muggle.

It left her plenty of time to reflect on how much trouble she was in. Barbara, Dinah, Helena and Carol were not going to like her much when they woke up and found that she was gone. Relying on her was a little like counting on a drunken Chihuahua, but they had strong armed her into helping shore up the remains of the Super Community. Between setting up safe houses, overseeing transportation, supplying badly needed goods, arranging protection for supers and their families, and thousands of other little tasks that needed completing, they all had their hands full and Zatanna had effectively run out on them.

As little as they liked her gone, she figured they would like her goodbye note even less. All she had been able to scrawl was:

 _Going._

 _Need to find Nick._

 _Be back soon._

 _3 Zatanna._

She hoped they would understand she was seeking out her ex in hopes of learning what he knew, and not that she was defecting. She did plan on being back soon. Probably. _Hopefully._

The subway car turned a corner and its wheels screeched in protest. Zatanna winced at the pain in her temples. She felt as if she were walking along the edge of a knife—using magic would incapacitate her, yet pain might center her. Still, she had been lucky so far. With the disguise she had lifted from Bruce's manor, she had not been recognized. When she was, or if the baddies stumbled onto her anyway, she would have no choice but to protect herself with her magic.

That was why she needed to get to Nick. They needed information, and he was one of the two people she could think of that might possibly know what was going on. Especially since he'd been all moody and cryptic as of late, getting all gloom and doom about the smallest things. If he didn't . . .that was when things would get tricky.

Then she'd have to seek _him_ out. John Constantine. The man who had chewed her up and spat her out, both magically and emotionally. The man who was inarguably the most powerful mage she had ever met, but was also the most capricious. The doomed one, some called him; the hanged man. The man whose name still made Shazam blanch—John had once stolen Billy's powers, and only Billy's fantastic luck and cleverness had allowed him to win them back.

She and Nick Necro had history as well, of course, in and out of the bedroom. John Constantine had figured largely in both aspects, honestly. But she thought that without John as an instigating force, she might be able to talk to Nick with no one dying, opening portals to dangerous magical realms, or at the very least _shouting._

In her current state, her headache blinding, the thought of lowered voices was pleasing, indeed. In fact, the thought of a moment's quiet so enchanted her that when someone jostled her, large hand gripping firmly around the curve of her posterior, she reacted instinctively.

" _kcaB_ _ffo,"_ she intoned, pulling on a whisper of her power to make him leave. In that moment, pain crashed down on her, making her cry out.

 _Shit,_ she thought, as her legs wobbled beneath her. _You're an idiot._

The tram was full, most were now staring at her. The man she had told to back off was ranting louder and louder about being forced away from her. "It's not natural! She forced me away! Just with a few words!"

Pain crested over her like a wave, and a larger one loomed. She'd weather it—she was tougher than she looked—but she had to get off the train. There was only one thing for it. Gritting her teeth, she thought of John and his special mode of travelling. _Time to go,_ she told herself, bracing herself for pain and confusion. Then, when her legs buckled beneath her, she harnessed that momentum, and whispering _levart_ , sank right through the floor.

Doing this like John could, slipping through the cracks in the world and calling it travel, was hard enough at the best of times. Truthfully, Zatanna had her doubts that she could pull it off now. But she was desperate, and so as the world and her perception of it whipped by at a fantastic pace, she found the strength to whisper _orceN kciN,_ and her destination was set.

The world spun faster before stopping abruptly. She stumbled forward, trying to catch her balance. Then, as if her feet were glued to the floor, she could go no further. Her momentum was such that she had to throw her hands forward to catch herself before falling to the ground entirely.

For a moment she half-thought she had somehow left her feet behind her on the train. She couldn't understand why she couldn't just shift them, even an inch. Then blue, glowing rune light activated on the ground beneath her, and she knew. Rare as they were, her father had spoken of them. This was a mage trap, designed to hold her here by the strength of the caster's magic. And she had just stumbled into it.

It was also in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. _Points for originality,_ Zatanna thought. _Never been in one of these, before._ Blessedly, her headache was gone. Although she was unsure as to the finer details of _how_ a mage trap worked, something about it seemed to be holding her headache at bay, even if she was restricted from using her magic, as well.

Well, there was no point in sitting around. Now that she could think clearly, she was almost chipper, even though she was captured. Besides, this was probably one of her paranoid ex-boyfriend's defenses.

"Nick!" She shouted, before she could think better of it. "It's just me. I only came to talk. It's important. Let me out, please!"

There were several minutes of waiting, glorying in her relatively healthy status, and admiring the crumbling brickwork before a door opened at the far end of the warehouse. A slice of sunlight cut across the floor as it opened. It was a little jarring. Abandoned warehouses were nighttime places, in her opinion. Not 6:30 AM places.

As soon as the second person walked through the door, however, Zatanna tensed. She exhaled slowly when two more walked through. This was not Nick. None of them were Nick. That meant she had triggered some trap—potentially made for him—set by people who knew she could travel like John Constantine. Only a handful could. In fact, as far as she knew, it was only she, John, and Nick.

So who had caught her? And where was Nick?

The four figures were hooded and cloaked, and a small, irreverent part of her thought that was just ridiculous. Unless you were straight up coven'ing at midnight on Samhain, or whatever it was teenagers tended to get up to, these days, anything more than streetwear was just melodramatic.

Then again, she tended to wreak havoc in a leotard and a top hat, so who was she to judge?

The four figures surrounded the mage trap glyph, so that Zatanna had to pace to keep them all in sight. She refused to spin wildly, however. This wasn't her first rodeo, and she wouldn't give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her afraid.

" _Human_ _mage_ _,_ " one of them hissed, through a throat that sounded a bit like he'd been gargling glass. _"We welcome your contribution to our overthrow."_

 _Huh,_ Zatanna thought. _Talia al Ghul was right._ _Unsubtle alien invasion it is, then._ "Um, no. Sorry, but I'll have to decline. Helping alien invaders is not on my to-do list for today. Try again . . . never."

" _Your wishes are ignored,"_ Another said, with that same unsettling roughness. This voice was slightly lower, and in some indefinable way sounded more humanistic than the first. _"The same as your pleas for mercy shall be."_

Before Zatanna could open her mouth to argue that she would be begging exactly _no one_ for mercy, the third spoke. " _Just as the last vict_ _i_ _m's w_ _ere_ _."_

"Last victim?" She said instead, as slowly, the gears in her mind began to turn.

" _The dark haired male,"_ the familiar-sounding captor not-so-helpfully explained.

" _Strong in magic,"_ another added. " _He had much power to exploit. Very useful sacrifice."_

Zatanna stared at the last alien in horror, piecing it all together. She had asked to travel to Nick, but Nick wasn't here. Unless . . . he _was_ here. At least a part of him. Like a hand, or a foot . . .

Or his magical essence . . .

Bile rose up in Zatanna's throat. Was this how the mage's trap was powered? Her father had told her they were horrible, painful experiences, but this energy was actually somewhat soothing, for all that it left her powerless. Was it because it was Nick's? They had loved each other, once. Did his magical energy still retain some of that fondness for her?

Zatanna closed her eyes. "Nick isn't dead," she told them, even though she was now fairly sure he was. Now, however, she had to stall for time or an idea, or at least an opportunity. If these beings killed Nick, they would have zero trouble killing her. "You're lying."

" _There is no reason to lie, human woman,"_ the robed figure directly in front of her gargled. Then, as if that was some kind of signal, all four raised their arms at once.

Zatanna rocked her weight back as she scrambled for her holster. The loaded pistol had been just part of her costume that she had 'borrowed' from the mansion, although she doubted Bruce would mind. Especially if it meant she could take down one of the baddies now, before they killed her.

Her aim was neither smooth nor efficient—she wasn't highly trained in firearms, for Christ's sake, she was no Red Hood—but she managed to get the gun on the alien in front of her just as they began to chant.

She pulled back the trigger, but just as the gun fired, her world went dark.

* * *

 **June 23rd, 20xx**

 **Wayne Manor, 9:27 AM**

 **Day 3**

 **...**

 **...**

Alfred Pennyworth had several times noticed that important decisions, in the Wayne Household, were not restricted to the Batcave. Sometimes they were made in the kitchen. Sometimes with his input.

"People are panicking, Master Bruce," he told his grown charge, all the while subtly corralling his newest one away from the sugar bowl. "They need a tangible sign that someone is protecting them. It's one thing to hide away when you're still in danger. Now, when all the attacks against supers have apparently stopped, it just looks cowardly."

Bruce grunted, his visage dark. He didn't even notice when Michael Wilson tottered over to him. Alfred bent down and scooped him up before they were forced to interact. In his current state, _that_ would be nothing but disaster.

"What would you recommend?" Bruce asked, and Alfred took it as a positive sign that he was speaking at all.

"To make a show of strength," Alfred said bluntly. "The world needs to see that its heroes have not abandoned it. While I understand it's necessary to split up our remaining forces, I believe that Batman and Robin belong to Gotham. Let Richard and Timothy go off and provide assistance where they are most needed. I think you need to remain here."

"Or lend Dick my spare suit," Bruce muttered.

"Or that," Alfred agreed, absently handing the toddler in his arms a carrot stick when he began to squirm. From across the kitchen, Damian squinted and frowned at the child, perhaps trying to find some resemblance to either Rose or Jackson.

Thinking Damian was playing with him, Michael covered his face with his hands before peeking out between his fingers.

Damian was decidedly unamused.

Alfred took note of this all peripherally. His attention was focused on Bruce, waiting to hear what had already been decided. For it already had been decided, that much he knew. Bruce did this sometimes—came to him with pre-made decisions, simply to check, at the last minute, whether he didn't disagree with him too profoundly.

Alfred no longer pretended that it didn't drive him spare. But in this circumstance, it made sense. Diana Prince and Arthur Curry had left for Atlantis last night, after it was decided that the Atlanteans' brand of magic was far too dangerous to fall into enemy hands. As they were the two beings on Earth that could best survive the pressures of the ocean floor, as well as integrate into Atlantean society, they had set off to protect Arthur's kingdom. As they were two integral members of the New League, Bruce would have made every decision he could with them, simply to have their input. Now all that was left to see them through, after running them by Alfred, of course.

"I will stay here," Bruce finally said. "At least until I hear from Jim. Of all the times for him to take a vacation down in the tropics. But Barbara's gotten through to him, and he'll be back in a few days. Airline travel isn't exactly as smooth as it used to be."

Alfred nodded. "And the boys?" No need to ask about the girls. Barbara was in charge of them, and as far as they knew they were far safer out in Asia than here. Worse came to worst, they would be two of the remaining supers on foreign soil that might have to combat the Iconoclasts if the rest of them somehow fell.

Bruce glanced over at his youngest son. "Damian will continue as Robin. Tim is primarily going to help Oracle, but will retake his mantle as Red Robin if needed. Dick elected to stay Nightwing and work more closely with Birds of Prey, although will switch off with me as Batman as needed."

"And Jason?" Alfred asked, offhandedly. Michael squirmed in his hold and he hoisted him higher, so that now he and Michael Wilson fixed Bruce with curious expressions.

Bruce had never been good with young children. His eyes flicked over to the toddler, his jaw tightening before responding. "Red Hood and the Outlaws are going to do what they always do, I suppose. Cause trouble. For once, I hope it will be to our benefit. He's not given any specifics."

It was a loose plan, but at the outset Alfred could find nothing he disagreed with. There was, however, one last point he had to discuss before Bruce became almost impossible to track down. "It sounds like you have all accounted for, Master Bruce. But before you go—I assume since Mister Curry did not take Michael Wilson, that we shall be caring for the young master here?"

Bruce winced. "One-quarter Atlantean is apparently not enough to survive the trip down, at least not at such a young age. Barbara and Helena are looking into establishing safe houses. We could probably—"

"Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted, a look of stern disapproval on his face. "You aren't insisting we send the tot away from us. Wayne Manor is the safest place for him; our identities compromised or not."

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him, and Alfred was struck with a visceral memory of him at 11-years-old, making the exact same expression. He was hit by a wave of nostalgia. So much and yet so little had changed.

"You're going to keep him here no matter what I decide, aren't you?" Bruce asked flatly.

Alfred nodded serenely. "Quite right, Master Bruce."

"I know better than to argue with you," Bruce muttered. "Fine, just . . . try to keep him from getting underfoot. Damian, let's go."

Damian hopped up out of his chair, following his father down to the Batcave. Alfred looked down at the boy in his arms, who watched them go curiously.

"His Daddy?" He asked, pointing towards Damian.

With a lifetime of determining the odd logic of children, Alfred came to the correct conclusion. "Yes, Master Michael. Mr. Wayne is Damian's father."

Michael Wilson looked down. His eyelashes were long and dark, like his father's, yet the curve of his nose was all his mother's. "I have a daddy," he told Alfred. "I dunno where he is. Momma, too. D'you know where dey went?"

Alfred's heart throbbed. The boy was not yet four, and would never see his parents again. How was he to explain sudden death to a toddler?

"They are protecting us," he informed the tot gravely. Someday he would be the one to Michael what had happened to his parents, but not until he could understand. "They are heroes, and have already protected many, many people. Now, they want to protect you."

Michael's lower lip wobbled. "I wanna see dem!"

"I know, I know," Alfred rubbed his back comfortingly. "But the best way to keep them happy is to stay safe, with us. Can you do that, Master Michael?"

"But I miss them," Michael protested, his entire voice wobbling. "I want Momma. I want Daddy!"

Alfred could see that a full on breakdown was imminent, and there was only one thing left to do. "Well, until the crisis is over, I think we may have to console ourselves with cookies," he told the boy. "Do you like cookies?"

Michael nodded up at him, blinking away tears. Alfred knew that tonight would be a difficult one, particularly as it had been almost three days since he'd lost his parents. For now, he was lucky that Michael still seemed more interested in cookies than crying.

"Yes, please," he told Alfred. Alfred was charmed that Rose had, for all her sins, taught her son good manners.

"Well then, could you be my helper? We need to make them from scratch, you see. And then I think we get to taste them."

"Ok." Michael agreed, and they set to work making cookies.

* * *

 **June 23rd, 20xx**

 **Wayne Manor, 10:18 AM**

 **Day 3**

 **...**

 **...**

There was a time, back when he was a kid in the orphanage, and before he'd been farmed out for the last time, when Billy had gotten sick. Really sick. 104 degree fever sick. He'd laid there on his cot bed, too weak to get up for a glass of water, let alone make it to the matron's office. His fellow orphans had only gotten the matron when he began to rave about his own death in his delusions. He'd recovered after four nights spent in the hospital, and the matron had been cruel to him for weeks after. As if he'd gotten sick on purpose, just to make her look incompetent.

He remembered very little of that illness, and what he could remember made no sense. At one point he was convinced the window was melting, and that there had been a two inch tall velociraptor nipping at his eyeballs. Beyond that, there was only a sense of purpose, of determination.

 _I will not die yet,_ he had decided, ill and unravelling; fever heating his brain. _I am not done._

That resolve had been strengthened through his meeting with the wizard, the gifting of his magical powers, every interaction with Black Adam, and his years of fighting in the Justice League. Every time he had felt weak; every time he had felt overwhelmed; every time he had whined to himself _but I'm onl_ _y a kid_ _!,_ that remembrance would stiffen his spine, and make him keep going.

Today that resolve had been tested once again. Was being tested, even now. He had been steadily degrading since the magical pulse three days ago, but he'd always been able to combat the worst of the effects by turning back into plain, unmagical Billy Batson. Now, he could not. He had called down the living lightning three times—three times, and each time it felt like his body would split apart with the pressure—and nothing happened. The power was there, he could feel it, but something was blocking his transformation. Something was keeping him trapped in his magical form.

Something was controlling part of his magic.

Anger surged. How dare someone control him, control Shazam? With his anger came a tidal wave of dark energy, washing over him and making it hard to breathe. Every time he lost control of his emotions—and that was happening with growing frequency with every hour—some dark, murky, magical impulse overtook him. It was the surest proof that the magical pulse had lingering effects. Each rush was painful but also provocative, and as it lapped at him, he felt parts of his personality erode. First to go was his pride, and there was no shame in his obvious weakness, there was only the gratitude he could move at all. Next was his optimism, and he had long since given up hoping for him being well again, as long as he could help protect his friends. His self-worth was nearly gone, but he worried more for what was to come.

What would be stripped away next? His determination? His loyalty?

Billy was facing an enemy that he did not know how to fight. He could only rely on his remaining friends to save him. That, and do his best not to succumb. For that would be what was last to go.

His sense of purpose— _I will not die yet. I am not done._

* * *

 **June 23rd, 20xx**

 **Wayne Manor, 2:51 PM**

 **Day 3**

 **..**

...

Three and a half days since the Iconoclast attack, and no one else had died. Not yet, anyway. At least, to Bruce's knowledge. For all his technology and his connections, there were places he couldn't access. Right now, he was worried about one place in particular: Arkham Asylum. For whatever reason, he'd been unable to connect with anyone on the island. Nor could he hack into the security system, even when he tried via remote access through his old computer, located in his secret base located in one of the least accessible, subterranean caves beneath the island.

With enough time and effort he'd be able to break into their security system, but this wasn't the time to devote his efforts to side projects. Nor could he ask Barbara to assist, not when she was being run ragged trying to protect every superhero in America. Yet the radio silence from the island when nearly every single major criminal from Gotham was currently ensconced within was slowly driving him mad, particularly as Selina was there, and there was no way for him to ensure she was safe.

 _She shouldn't even have gone there this time!_ He raged internally. _What the hell was wrong with that judge, sending her there instead of Blackgate?_ Not that Blackgate could hold Selina long, and every judge in the state knew it. Still, Arkham on a lockdown was no place for Bruce's on-again, off-again lover, especially as she had been so damn _good_ for the last three years, during her contractual efforts with Birds of Prey.

Then she had to go and steal that new blood diamond from a prominent jeweler's, and all bets were off. It hadn't even been him that caught her. She had slipped and fallen on the ice, leaving her easy pickings for the GCPD. The trial was open and shut, and as soon as the fractured ankle had healed enough for her to stand a chance, they had shipped her off to Arkham.

Bruce could only hope that she would be safer in there, than out here. Who was to say she wouldn't have been targeted had she been on the outside? Jason was an equally controversial figure and hadn't been targeted, but he was also legally and technically dead. Selina Kyle had no such protection, and everyone already knew she was Catwoman.

The bottom line was that there was nothing he could do. It went against everything he was, but he had to believe in her, and trust that everything would be well. _She is one of the most capable women you know,_ he tried to convince himself. _And she has as many lives as a cat. She will be fine._

 _She_ must _be fine._

"You're brooding up a storm, buddy."

Bruce glanced up at Oliver, who was watching him with a pinched expression, _sans_ domino.

"I'm not your buddy," he informed the marksman, who held up his hands placatingly.

"Look, point still stands. Brooding. And now that I have the full effect of your face doing it, it is somehow more effective. Petulant, but effective."

This was one of the greater considerations in keeping his true identity away from the Green Arrow. He was _annoying._ "What do you want, Arrow?"

Oliver made a put-out face. Only God knew how Dinah found this man attractive, and how Harold Jordan could stand him. Only his strictures on murder had kept Bruce from killing him in a fit of pique long ago.

"Oh come _on,_ Bruce," he whined. "We've known each other how long? Hell, counting our secret identities, we've known each other since we were 12. Well, you were 12. I was 14."

"Get to the point, Arrow."

"That's just it!" He exclaimed, hitting his leg. "I think we should be on first name terms. And then you and I should call a meeting for Billionaire Superheroes United. Let the record show that I suggest we call ourselves BSU for short."

Bruce looked skyward, as if beseeching the heavens for assistance. It was something that he did often enough as Bruce Wayne that he'd had to work to keep it from slipping into his repertoire of reactions as Batman. Now, it didn't matter anymore.

"I'm serious," Oliver continued, his tone becoming less flippant. "Now that our real names are out there, there's no reason to keep our assets separate. I want to put my resources as Oliver Queen on board, and not just to funnel into the Watchtower. I want to know what as superheroes we're going to do to address poverty, clean water, food, education . . ."

Bruce frowned. "Those are noble goals but is now the time? We don't know the extent of our enemies. Wouldn't it be better to wait, and see what the war effort dictates?"

Oliver shrugged. "See, that's what I figured _you_ were gonna' do. Don't get me wrong, I'm leaving the accounts I already have keyed to contribute to the Watchtower and basic superhero upkeep funds. I'm still contributing, but what I want to do is pull out of all the non-essentials, and make it obvious what Oliver Queen and Green Arrow stand for."

"You gonna' run for President, next, babe?" Dinah asked, as she sidled up next to them, slipping an arm around her boyfriend's waist.

"Hell, no," he said. "Too much politics. Too few weekends free." He turned back to Bruce. "Are you on board? You put your cash towards the war, and I put mine towards the people?"

Bruce couldn't see any immediate problems with the plan, but declined to answer immediately on principle. He really didn't like Oliver, and only half of it stemmed from their time at school together. Instead, he glanced at Dinah. "What do you think?"

She smirked. "I'm not a part of your club. BSU, was it?"

Oliver sighed, aggrieved. "You _could_ be if you would just _marry me already."_

Dinah snorted, but leaned in and pecked her boyfriend on the cheek. "You haven't convinced me yet, babe. But come on, the meeting's ready to start, and I'm pretty sure you both have to be there."

It was the first meeting called since most had left the Manor. Canary and Arrow were close enough to come back for the meeting, and Shazam had remained, too ill to leave, even had he wanted to put his foster family in danger. John and Shayera would check in if they could, but their covers were paramount. All others would watch in from monitors. Flash had gone back to Central City, scrambling to put his affairs in order, and to make sure his city was safe. Huntress, Carol Ferris, and Zatanna were assisting Oracle in the Clocktower and abroad. Booster Gold and Blue Beetle had headed south to keep several states a piece from panicking, but both were checking in to hear everyone's status report.

Dick, Tim, and Damian were out scouting Gotham, staying together and searching for any sign of the Iconoclasts or their influence among their contacts in Gotham. They would miss the meeting, but would be briefed later. And while Bruce had given Roy Harper the time and frequency to listen in on the meeting, he was not sure the Outlaws would attend either. As he had told Alfred, he had no idea what Red Hood and his team were up to. He wasn't even sure what part of America they were focusing on.

He guessed they were close to home, however, as they had been spent the last few nights in the Manor. This was less of a hardship than Bruce had feared. Roy was slightly less of a headache than Ollie, and Koriand'r was unfailingly polite. Jason had done everything he could to avoid him, which Bruce supposed was warranted. Painful, but warranted.

He would have done the exact same thing if his and Jason's positions were reversed.

He may be doing something quite similar as it was.

Bruce took his place at the head of the table, watching as Canary and Arrow sat side by side. Across from them sat Shazam, and next to him, a latecomer to the New League.

The clock struck 3, and around them, the monitors flickered to life. Barry was the first to the draw when he saw the lanky, dark-haired man sitting next to Billy. "Patrick!" He cried out, and his smile was sudden and wide. "You're ok!"

Plastic Man—Patrick 'Eel' O'Brian—gave a jaunty little salute. "Come on, guys. Did you really think they would take me?"

"Not with our luck," Helena Bertinelli muttered from her own monitor. Patrick turned and gave her the finger, but they were both grinning.

"What happened?" Ted Kord asked. He and Michael Carter were sharing a monitor. They were working together to restore order in the South, and were listening in from the same location.

Patrick shrugged. "They left me for dead. Got me to go liquid, and they brought out the acetone." He sighed dramatically. "I _told_ them that painting my nails was a personal choice, and that if they didn't like the color they could take it up with the salon. But _nooooo_ they had to try and remove it themselves. Amateurs, one and all."

"We're glad you're back with us," Bruce said. He liked Patrick well enough—better than he liked most people, if he was being brutally honest—but his flippancy wasn't always timely. "Can you be more specific about the identity or even nature of your attackers?"

Patrick grimaced. "Run-of-the-mill assassins, boss. All human; no supers."

"Then how did they catch you?" Dinah asked.

"There were just too many of them," Patrick admitted. "That, and they had this nifty gadget that somehow tricked my body into going more liquid than I would like. I don't know how it affected the mutagenic change, but it took me a lot less time to burn through the acetone than I'd expected, so maybe it's a toss up? Thankfully they didn't know that would happen, and I limped my way off into the arms of the _lovely_ Birds of Prey."

Helena snorted again. She had been the one to find him, according to Barbara, and Bruce couldn't tell if they were fond of each other, neutral, or annoyed at being stuck together for the last day.

"So we're pretty much where we started," Oliver said, frustrated. "We already knew the 'Iconoclasts' have an army of earth-bound assassins—a hint that Ra's al Ghul is involved. And that they have a magical death beam, which hints to I don't even know who. And—"

The last monitor had flickered to life as Oliver began his rant. John Stewart's face was grim, and far too close, like he was holding his recording device up to his face. From what little they could see of the background, it appeared as though he was transmitting through a storage closet.

"If I may," he interrupted Ollie. "I have news on _that."_

"Oh hello, John," Helena muttered. "What perfect timing." Clearly she was in a mood. Bruce wasn't sure why Barbara had sent Helena as her representative, but he was regretting it. Zatanna was much more pleasant, even when the magical pulse was slowly eroding her mind.

Bruce nodded at John. "Proceed. We know your time is limited."

Those in the room had a clear view of John. The others listening in had to make do with only hearing his clipped tones. "Thank you, Bruce. My news isn't good. The rumors are true: Luthor has sunk billions of dollars into a defense program with undefinable parameters. It could very well be connected to the magical pulse he's kept it away from me, and the few military contacts I could subtly sway to my side were dropped from the project. The man has an uncanny sense for betrayal."

"All the more reason for you to be careful," Dinah said firmly.

John nodded. "I'm confident in my position. He trusts me more every day, and he's keeping himself so busy there's little time to suspect anyone. As you know, he's touring the continental United States lending support to every city he stops in. It's all an attempt to feed his ego, but he's hitting upwards of seven cities a day, six states a week. The people are rallying around him. We have to be extremely careful when we find a way to take him down."

Bruce kept his expression carefully impassive. He and Tim had thought through more than ten scenarios to oust Luthor from power. Not all of them resulted in the man's death. They had to be carefully implemented, however, and with perfect timing. Otherwise it would backfire and all would be over.

Of course, if they found evidence that Luthor had sided with the mysterious Iconoclasts, everything would become comparatively easy. "Thank you, John," he said. "You're doing us a great service."

John nodded. "I'll let you know when I have anything definite. Everyone, _stay safe._ When all this over, I expect to get a drink with each and every one of you." He panned the room, taking in everyone from the limited view of his transponder—part of his 'wristwatch' that Lucius Fox had specially outfitted both he and Shayera for their time undercover. He hesitated when he saw Plastic Man, and offered a little nod.

He signed off, and his monitor went dark.

"That was marginally helpful," Ollie allowed. "So now we have Ra's and Luthor, and—"

"And Bane," Bruce interrupted. "Without a doubt, Bane is in on it."

"Do you have evidence?" Booster Gold asked.

Bruce gave a non-committal hand gesture. "My boys are working on it. He's not making a move on Gotham, and that's enough for me. I can only assume he's part of this."

"While we're on the subject of bad news," Helena interjected. "Zatanna's missing. She did a runner yesterday and neither Barbara nor Carol can find her. Said she was going off to find Nick—think she means Necro—and we haven't heard from her since. We're assuming the worst, and advise everyone to protect themselves accordingly."

"Zatanna isn't a bad guy!" Billy slurred. He was still holding onto his Shazam form, with a stubbornness and strength of will that Bruce approved of. He was in terrible shape, however, and when he was in his Shazam form he was quickly degenerating.

"No one's saying that," Dinah said firmly. "But she may have been captured, gone mad . . . She may be dead, Billy."

"Way to bring down the mood, babe," Ollie said, with a glance at Billy. They weren't close friends by any means, but even he seemed to a little unnerved by Billy's poor condition.

"That's not all," Helena continued. "Barbara hasn't been outed—yet—but they're targeting her in a different way. Someone has set every hacker alive on Oracle's supercomputer. Whoever can bring it down gets 10 billion."

"Shit," Barry breathed.

"What?" Bruce hissed. He was furious that he hadn't already been told. "When did this happen?"

Helena's lips thinned. "About 40 minutes ago. Tim and Carol are running backup, and I've spent the last half hour trying to get every computer specialist we know to help. They are tearing down our walls as fast than we can build them up." She huffed with mirthless laughter. "Really could have used Cyborg, about now. He could have handled this better than anyone."

"If there's anything the Outlaws can do, just let us know," Roy Harper said, from a monitor across the room. From the looks of it, he was listening in from a storage warehouse. "We've got no problem targeting the hackers themselves."

Bruce glanced over at Ollie. Green Arrow was staring pointedly at the table, ignoring his foster son, even though their argument about Koriand'r had run its course. His gaze flicked up to the monitor. Koriand'r wasn't on screen, but Jason was, in profile, and several feet back. His helmet was off, and the sight of his wild tufts of dark-dyed hair sent a lance of pain through Bruce's chest. So often, when he looked at Jason, he was amazed at how the lanky boy had grown into a man.

 _And I missed it,_ he castigated himself. _Every minute of it. Because I failed him. I let him_ die.

"Counterattack?" Helena clarified, with a side glance at Bruce. She was reporting through one of Oracle's large screen monitors, so she had a better chance of seeing everyone's reactions.

"We pick some of the biggest, high-profile targets, and we eliminate them," Jason said, glancing over at his transmission device, making it look like he was making eye contact with everyone in the room. "We make no secret that anyone taking this bounty is putting their lives at risk. It won't deter everyone, but it will slow the rate of attack. Dissuade some of the less-motivated ones."

"We are not assassins," Bruce growled, both furious and proud with Jason. Furious that he would jump so quickly to murder after years of abstinence, yet also proud that he would help Barbara and the New League without hesitation. It was like he'd come home, even knowing Bruce couldn't accept his methods.

"It needs to be done, Batman," Jason said, and the refusal to use his name was like an icepick to his chest. How had he managed to wiggle his way back into their lives? Jason must be kinder to Damian and Tim than he was to Bruce, or Dick. To them, he could be a big brother, displaying more patience than Bruce thought he possessed, rather than a continual thorn in the side of those who couldn't protect him from the Joker.

Or perhaps it was simply easier for them to forgive? Understandable, as they hadn't known Jason as he was as a boy; hadn't seen his eyes wide with wonder, and his crooked smile that was both wicked and pure. They didn't understand Bruce's disappointment with Jason, but Dick might. Moment of weakness in the Batcave aside, Bruce doubted his eldest boys were friendly. Dick had seen Jason at his best and worst, and suffered through the pain of losing him alongside Bruce.

"And I say no," he said, snapping out of his reverie with not a moment of hesitation. His personal pain was not enough to detract from doing the right thing. It never was.

"I say yes," Oliver said. When Bruce glared at him, he shrugged. "Drop in the bucket, now, Bruce."

"I'm sorry, but I agree," Dinah said. "I don't like it, but we need to protect Oracle."

"Vote?" Patrick offered.

Bruce closed his eyes. There was no time to argue this, not when they still had everyone's reports to go through. "All _not_ in favor of the Outlaws assassinating key targets among the hackers, raise your hand."

He, Billy, and Barry were the only ones voting against. Patrick sheepishly voted for. Helena, Ollie, Dinah, Ted, Michael, Roy, and Jason weren't sheepish about it. Even if Koriand'r, Barbara, and Carol voted against it—which at least Koriand'r would not, not if the Outlaws were decided on it—they were outvoted.

Bruce's lips flattened. "Confer with Oracle," he told Jason's monitor. It was the closest he'd come to allowing this. "And know that I don't agree."

Jason saluted lazily, his lips twisting into a sharp smile. Roy leaned in to turn off the monitor, and then they were gone.

"Kori will keep them from going too far," Oliver offered up in the quiet that followed.

"Thought you blamed her for this?" Dinah said, with a pointed look at her boyfriend.

He shrugged. "Don't know why she lived, but when it comes to her boys, she knows what's best for them."

"Moving on," Bruce cut in. He couldn't handle any thoughts that led back to Jason. Not right now. "Flash, your report from Central City?"

* * *

 **June 24th, 20xx**

 **Central City, 3:52 PM**

 **Day 4**

 **...**

 **...**

The phone rang twice before a red-gloved hand tapped his bluetooth earpiece, answering it. "Flash."

"What is green, blond, and devilishly handsome all over?"

Barry Allen rolled his eyes before landing a quick one-fourteen punch on the goon in front of him. Every single fight he'd been in since the Iconoclasts attacked had been laughable, but there were a lot of hapless thugs that needed putting down. They must have enlisted everyone they could find just to slow him down, or, on the off chance they got lucky, bring him down.

Barry could practically hear Hal joke now. _They're doing this all wrong._ _Now, had they known about your rom com addi_ _ction_ _, they'd have plunked you down in front of a couch and then you'd be doomed. They_ _'d have to call me back to_ _save your little red heinie. Which I would, of course_ _, b_ _ut I'd laugh at you while I did it._

His inner Hal was kind of a dick, Barry realized. So was the real one. Why the hell did he miss him so much?

 _So you don't think about Wally, and how you were unable to protect him. Just like you were unable to save Iris._

"Hello, Ollie," he said, trying to think about anything other than the West family. "I'm a little busy at the moment."

"Oh, so am I!" Ollie laughed. There was the distinct sound of someone in the background wheezing for breath. "I've taken down 22 baddies today. Oh, wait—is he? Yeah, he's down. 23. You?"

Barry sighed before lightning-kicking another henchman. "37. I think they're trying to take us down with sheer numbers."

"Agreed. It's awful. And _so_ annoying. So I figured I'd call you up and we could have a way more interesting conversation while we take them down!"

Barry rolled his eyes, but at least it might prove a welcome distraction from the memory of dead friends and loved ones.

"I'll start," Ollie said when Barry refused to play along. "How do you think Hal is doing?"

Two goons had tried to double team Barry, and he dodged around their attacks so quickly he was a blur. While no less annoyed with Ollie flippancy and timing, he did feel slightly vindicated that he wasn't the only one thinking about Hal. "Better than we are, that's for sure."

Ollie's reply was far too chipper. "True! And who do you think he misses the most?"

That was a no brainer. "Carol."

" _Besides_ Carol."

Barry would like to flatter himself that this was another no brainer, but deep down he wasn't sure. He knew what he'd like the answer to be, though. "Me. Or did you think you were in the running?" He said, and it was slightly easier to force his bravado.

Ollie sputtered, and there was a _twang_ of a taut bowstring released. "I beg your pardon. I'm so out of the running, I have _won."_

"You can keep telling yourself that, I don't mind."

"Um, you have clearly missed out on the manly understanding that Hal, my best friend, and I share."

Barry began running in circles around the remaining henchmen, moving so quickly that they worked themselves into a dizzy frenzy trying to catch him. It did his heart good to see them stumbling into each other and knocking each other out with wildly aimed punches. Then he remembered that Wally had loved doing that exact move, and his heart fell down to his stomach.

"He may be your best friend, but who is his?" Barry said, trying to think of Hal, rather than Wally. Hal, with his caustic sense of humor, inexplicable inability to multitask when not in Lantern mode, and gruff demeanor that hid the occasional heart of . . . well, maybe not gold. Silver, though. Or maybe bronze, Barry wasn't exactly sure how far that idiom could stretch.

"Obviously the answer is me," Ollie said, sounding mildly aggrieved. "We are known far and wide for the strength of our bond, and the profundity of our friendship. We've gone on a life-changing road trip together. Or had you forgotten about that?"

He hadn't, but up rose a memory of his own that was more gripping. About a week before Hal had left for Oa, Barry had been moody from Shayera's refusal, even though he'd never really expected to get anywhere with her in the first place, and had crashed at Hal's place for a night. Hal, for all his rolled eyes and complaints and _I told you this was a bad idea only 1000 times Bartholomew Allen's,_ was one of those guys who knew what his friends needed before they did. After the requisite bitching he'd sat Barry down on the couch, opened up his Netflix account—purchased solely for Barry, don't think he didn't know that; Hal actively disliked television, the grumpy weirdo —and voluntarily brought up the single girliest film either of them had ever watched together.

Hal had fallen asleep thirty minutes in. Mouth open, lolling over on the couch until he was in danger of sliding right down into Barry's lap. Barry had propped him up with his shoulder and watched to the end of the film, torn equally between the gripping romance on the screen and the solid weight of his best friend at his side.

"He watches rom coms with me, sometimes," Barry allowed, although that wasn't the emotional whole of it, not by any means.

Ollie gasped dramatically. " _No."_

"Yep. Last one was _The Notebook."_

Ollie began to sputter. "I—what—this . . .! No. _Hell_ no. You have got to be trolling me. Oliver Queen does not stand for this. When Hal gets back—"

There was a small crackle of static on the line, and Black Canary cut through her boyfriend's stumbling avowal. "When Hal gets back he's going to hear all about the big man-boners the two of you are nursing for him, unless you boys cut out the chat and pick up the slack. Lady's promise."

Barry winced. He'd forgotten Dinah was working with Oracle to monitor all their feeds to help keep them safe. This, in between fighting off all the cyber hackers who weren't getting systematically culled by Red Hood and the Outlaws.

"Yes ma'am," he said meekly.

"Yes, my love," Ollie said, in exactly the same tone.

"Good," she said. "And just so you know, you're both wrong. _I'm_ Hal's favorite, and don't you forget it." She cut off then, leaving the two men alone on the line.

"She has a point," Barry offered ruefully, and from the corner of his eye he spotted four more goons slinking past the opening of the alleyway. Reinforcements. "They do share an inexplicable and profound bond."

"Ok, so next question," Ollie said, bouncing back quickly. "Who was your favorite newscast team in the _Anchorman_ fight scene?"

* * *

 **June 24th, 20xx**

 **Wayne Manor, 10:39 PM**

 **Day 4**

 **...**

 **...**

It had been a long day, and was nowhere near over. Bruce was not as young as he used to be, and the strain of living as Batman during the daylight hours was more than he anticipated. This, on top of the simmering tensions in his own home. Could he go half a day without seeing Tim and Damian at each other's throats, or Deathstroke's grandson tottering in Alfred's wake? He needed an hour to himself. Just an hour, and then he could check back in with Oracle and see what needed doing. Patrolling was non-negotiable, but he also wanted to check in on how the hacking prevention movement was coming along.

He needed to see if Jason's methods were as effective as they were abhorrent.

He really needed that hour, however, so Bruce crept along the shadows of his own damn home, not sure whether he was more worried he'd run into Alfred, who might have the toddler with him; Tim, who was driving him crazy looking for news about Connor Kent; Damian, who wanted to patrol with a single-mindedness that reminded him of Talia and therefore worried him, or Dick, who—

"So, you're back," Dick said, in what might be the least expressive voice Bruce had ever heard him use. To not know how Dick felt about something was unnerving. For a heart-stopping moment Bruce thought he was speaking to him, before he realized that Dick was facing the opposite direction. He was in Bruce's path, lounging against one of the marble pillars in the foyer, addressing someone Bruce couldn't see.

Bruce slunk back into the shadows, and waited for a chance to slip by.

"Not for long," Jason replied, in tone that was uncharacteristically free of mockery. "The Manor was on the way to the next target, now we're heading right back out."

 _Speak of the_ _D_ _evil and he shall appear,_ Bruce thought. This was a rare opportunity. He hadn't heard his two eldest sons converse alone and out of costumes for over a year. Although he had one thousand things to do tonight and the need for a nap loomed, he found himself stilling, settling back against the marble pillar.

"I thought that part of your life was over." Dick sounded upset, but in a different way than Bruce was. Bruce had expected Jason to backslide. Dick, apparently, had not.

There was the sound of something rustling, but it didn't sound metallic. Jason was fidgeting with something, but not his guns. "Someone needs to do it, Dick. I don't want to, but—"

"And what will it accomplish?" Dick was angry. Good, he was on the same page as Bruce.

"It might save Bab's life, for one thing," Jason argued. "And ours. We need her at the helm. What the hell are we gonna' do if they clip her wings?"

Bruce inwardly sighed. Of course Jason would hit on the argument that would hold the most sway with Dick. Both boys were fond of Barbara—she had been their beloved Batgirl, before her current stint as Oracle—but Dick had loved her in a different way. Probably still did, if Bruce was any judge of love.

A long moment of quiet stretched, to the point where Bruce wondered if he should interrupt them, just to get on with his evening. Then, in a low, quiet voice, Jason asked, "Will it be over if I do this? Should we not come back to the Manor?" He sounded exhausted, and more than a little defeated. Bruce's expression hardened. It was so hard on him to empathize with Jason, mostly because it was so easy.

God, they were so alike. How could they have turned out so differently?

"No," Dick said, sounding sure of himself. "No, we're not—" A hitching breath. "We've got a lot to do after this. Our _family_ has a lot to do after this. So just . . . come home, ok? When you're done. Bring Roy and Kori and don't—don't run away."

"Y—Everyone's gonna be mad at me," Jason said, and there was a funny hitch in his voice. Like he meant to say something else, but something made him change his mind. "I don't think I'll be all that welcome at end of this."

"Yes, you will. Tim and Alfred love you," Dick argued. "And Dami, too, even though he's just as incapable of showing it as his father. And . . . you know. You belong here, no matter what you do."

Bruce reeled. That . . . was not what he had expected Dick to say. He had thought that Dick would have as hard a time with Jason's return as he did, especially as he was in between assassination missions. How could Dick forgive him so easily?

It was Jason who was on the same page as Bruce, for once. "Are you talking for everyone?" He asked, in an hesitant, low-pitched voice.

"I'll talk B around," Dick promised him.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. _Oh he would, would he?_

"You sure about that?" Jason asked, with exactly the same amount of disbelief Bruce was currently feeling.

"I'm not losing anyone else," Dick said, and Bruce winced. He knew that tone of voice, and he knew exactly how persuasive Dick could be when he went on one of his crusades. "I have been so, so lucky not to lose anyone in the family so far, and _I am not_ going to start with you. Not again. And I know you don't believe me, but I don't think B can stand to have you walk away again. He loves you, Jaybird. Even if he's crap at showing it."

Bruce's chest tightened, and he actively sought out escape routes. How badly would Alfred berate him if he set off a small detonation in the main hall? He was a grown man who had faced unimaginable horrors—literally, when taking Scarecrow into account—and yet he was still terrified to hear Dick talk about his love for them. He was even more afraid of Jason's reaction.

Salvation came from an unlikely source, when, before Jason could make a response, Roy Harper's voice called out, "Hey, Hood, quit the kissing, we gotta go! The Koriand'r Express is at the station, and she says it's time to set off." Now his voice was closer. "Oh, hey, Dick. Didn't see you there."

"Roy," Dick said, his voice a little strained.

"Yeah, I hear you," Jason said. "We're out." The next was ostensibly addressed to Richard. "Tell Demon Child not to mess with Timberly's hair while I'm gone. I'll uh, see you when we get back."

"As long as you _come_ back," was Dick's muttered response, just loud enough for Bruce to pick up on it.

Bruce flattened himself against the wall as Roy and Jason jogged past, heading for one of the side exits off the main hall. Hidden by the shadows, neither spared him a second glance. He listened to the faint sounds of Dick's footsteps, and didn't move until his partner had reached the second floor. Then he exhaled, and rationalized what he had overheard.

He had been wrong about Dick. Blame his sleep-deprivation for being so, but he should have known Dick would be on high alert where Jason was concerned. What fueled Bruce's disappointment was simply another source of anxiety, to Dick. He was scared he'd lose him again, and that it would negatively affect Tim and Damian this time, as well.

Bruce would leave those worries to Dick and Alfred. He was currently bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. He couldn't carry Jason too, no matter how much the boy—man, now—tugged on his heartstrings.

* * *

 **June 25th, 20xx**

 **Gotham's Clocktower** **1** **:** **1** **7 AM**

 **Day 5**

 **...**

 **...**

With fighting off the cyber hackers' attacks; doing some hacking of her own into Ra's al Ghul and Lex Luthor's accounts; providing aid to the flagging super community, and checking in with her array of assistants and _their_ staggering task lists, Barbara hadn't slept more than 10 hours since the Iconoclasts attacked. So when the news feed popped up at the bottom corner of her massive computer screen, it took her a good 15 seconds to comprehend what she was seeing.

 _METROPOLIS DESTROYED_ screamed the headline, and behind it was a picture of the city in ruins. Barbara's breath hitched, and her eyes scanned the article with a renewed sense of purpose. No sign of nuclear radiation, nor of bio-chemical weapons. Phrases jumped out at her: _unknown_ _technology,_ and _space of an hour,_ and _no known survivors._

At the end of the article: _Lex Luthor cuts short his philanthropic mission to lead commemoration ceremony._

Barbara put her head down on the console, and felt like crying. Instead, she picked up the phone, and called Bruce.

…

…

…

…

…

 **Can you tell how much I love Oliver Queen. Also the movie Anchorman. Also Batman being tired and grumpy and wanting to give Jason Todd a hug. All these things are good things.**


	4. Ch 3 - Metropolis

**As a reminder, the only characters in this Elseworldish universe who have died and resurrected are Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, and Kon-El, in their canon ways. This fact isn't incredibly important to the story, I'm just establishing it for contextual purposes. Also, if it is not explicitly stated, none of the characters have been married/had children/etc.**

 **Dinah purloins one of Ollie's famous Clash phrases from Injustice, because it pleases me immensely.**

 **Towards the end, Dinah designates a movement of a concerto that my piano teacher played for me before she died of cancer. It is a beautiful piece of music, but to me it shall always signify death. It may be fitting to give it a listen.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Metropolis**

* * *

 **June 25th, 20xx**

 **Chicago, 5:47 AM**

 **Day 5**

...

...

When news of Metropolis's annihilation reached them, the Outlaws were in one of their safe houses at the southern edge of Chicago. They had just finished three assassinations back to back, and Koriand'r, who had kept from the killing in order to transport them both more quickly than car or bike could have taken them, was exhausted. Not as exhausted as Roy, who had landed the killing shot on all three targets, however, so it was he who crashed first, after giving her a soft kiss, and Jason a piece of brusque encouragement.

"They're gonna forgive you, man," he'd said to their reluctant leader before flopping face first onto the mattress. "Do what you gotta do. Also, stop making me kill everyone, as I am getting too old for this."

It was technically Kori's turn to rest, and usually she would have slipped into the bed beside Roy, but tonight she had a mission of her own. She donned a hat, a pair of Roy's loosest jeans, a hoodie, and make her way to the nearest 24 hour convenience store. In this getup she would appear mostly human, and as long as the exotic color of her skin was covered up she should be relatively safe. Since the Ikon attack she had taken to hiding her alien status as best she could when she wasn't actively fighting. It was safer that way. Not only would it make her less of a target, but no other aliens were left save Shayera, and people mistrusted her now more than ever.

If only they knew why she had survived, and so many others didn't! She had an idea, but it needed to be tested. Thankfully, she could do it by herself, so if she were wrong, no one would know her suspicions but her.

When she'd returned, purchase hidden in the hoodie's pouch, Jason was on the phone. Even from across the room she could hear Timothy Drake, sounding more frantic than she'd ever heard him.

"— _completely destroyed, Jason! It's gone!_ He's _gone!"_

"You don't know that," Jason said, and it was in a voice as serious and as measured as Batman's. It was the tone of voice he clung to when he himself was close to falling back into the abyss. "Babs couldn't find him, he might not have been there."

" _Where else could he be? If he was fine, he would have found a way to contact me!"_

"Tim—"

" _He's my last living teammate. My best friend! He can't be gone again. He can't!"_

 _"Timothy!"_ Jason said, and the iron in it made Kori still. "Listen to me," he continued. "You cannot lose faith in him. You have to believe that he is ok. Repeat after me: I believe in Superboy."

 _"Jason—"_

"Do I need to get Dick involved?" Jason threatened. "'Cuz he will hug the shit out of you."

There was a shaky inhalation of breath coming through the receiver. _"No, I just— Ok, ok. I believe in Superboy,"_ Tim said quietly.

"I believe he is alive."

" _I . . . I believe he is alive."_

"I will not let this defeat me."

 _"I will not let this defeat me."_

"Again."

Tim repeated the mantra thrice more before Jason was satisfied. He nodded, forgetting that Tim couldn't see him. "Good. Now go find Dick and Demon Child. Stay with them, and every time you feel like rushing off to find your superbro, you remind yourself: I believe in Superboy. I believe he's alive. I won't let this defeat me."

There was a pause, and then, " _Thank you, Jason,"_ Tim said quietly. He sniffled a little, and Kori's heart pulsed in sympathy. Tim was such a kind boy in such a difficult position. It was hard for Kori to imagine such a sensitive young man becoming one of the Robins, especially when held up against Dick, Jason, and Damian.

"You were sweet with him," she noted after Jason hung up the phone. "Is it because he is family?"

He glanced over at her and his shoulders tensed. Kori hid a smile. Jason had never done well at expressing his softer emotions, and now was no exception.

"Good timing, Princess," he said, brusquely. "Got bad news. Maybe you should sit down."

Kori remained standing. "Does it have to do with Superboy?"

Jason made a see-saw motion with his hand. "Hope not, for Tim's sake."

He was stalling. Trying to find the words. "Jason, just tell me."

He looked down at the ground, and took a deep breath. His handsome face was dark as he admitted, "Metropolis was destroyed."

"What?" She breathed. "How can—how did . . .?"

"Unknown technology is the best they got. There were a couple bombs that went off underground, but no radiation, no chemicals . . . Hell, even the ozone layer is pretty much undisturbed. Everyone just up and died in the space of an hour."

Kori felt herself slipping into a dark, cool, place inside of her. To be anywhere else would be to fall prey to weakness, and empathizing so strongly with the victims that she would be crushed by their loss. "It only affected living organisms?" She asked.

Jason shook his head. "Something tore through a lot of buildings, especially those over 20 stories. There may have been some explosions down in the subways—no one's been able to get that close, yet. Beyond that it's inexplicable. The entire island is on lockdown. Bats and Oracle are trying to get to the bottom of it, and I'm sure we'll have more eventually. For now, I think we gotta' get you back to the Manor."

Kori's head whipped up, and she was suddenly very aware of her recent purchase. "What? Why?"

Jason frowned at her. "Because you're not from this planet, Kor. _Unknown technology,_ remember? That's only one step away from alien technology. You and Hawkgirl have to be quadruply careful, now. Everyone's looking for someone to blame, and I'm not gonna let it be you."

There may be another reason she should sequester herself, but her own fears were irrelevant. The Iconoclasts had just murdered millions of individuals. "Will you tell Roy? I need a moment," she said, nodding toward the bathroom.

He nodded. "Sure. Leave in five?"

"Ten, please," she requested.

Jason quirked an eyebrow. "Your wish, Princess," he said, with a ghost of his humor. As soon as he was gone, Kori rushed into the bathroom. She moved on autopilot, doing all that was required to determine her suspicions. All the while she mourned Metropolis's loss. She did not have friends or family centered in that city, but so many did. So many lives had been cut short, so many endeavors. It had been the Superfamily's home, and a shining example of positive relations between a city and its supers. Non-human supers. Now it was gone, a smoking heap of rubble, and all those beautiful, vibrant lives had been snuffed out like a candle.

All this was hard enough to bear, but in her hands lay something more personal. Kori stared down at the pink plastic tube, watching a faint plus symbol form on the tiny screen. She blinked, and when the meaning of it hit her, she leaned forward until her head was pressed against the cracked mirror.

They were at war, and she was pregnant.

Her boys were waiting for her when she walked out of the bathroom. She had buried the pregnancy test beneath the detritus in the bathroom's waste bin, but she had forgotten to change into her regular attire.

"Damn, babe," Roy said. "That's a new look for you." There was a hard sheen to his eyes that told her he knew of Metropolis's destruction. He was just trying to act like everything was normal; his way of keeping stabilized when the world was going wildly off-kilter.

Now she was going to take away the last vestiges of his composure. "I have something to tell you both before we go."

Jason shifted uneasily. He didn't want to be away from the Manor, not when his first family needed him. He eyed her expectantly as Roy stepped close to her, taking her hand.

"What is it?" He asked, light eyes searching her face, shadowed by his baseball cap.

It was harder than she expected to force the words out of her. "I am—I am with child."

For a moment, everyone was silent. Jason's eyes were wide, and they were directed towards her flat abdomen. Roy handled the announcement with less tact.

"You are?" He exclaimed. "Is it mine?"

With a groan, Jason smacked the back of his head.

"Ow!"

"Yes, Roy," she assured him. "It is yours. But do not feel as if I am pressuring you to take responsibility. I am honored to bear and raise this child on my own, and—"

Roy interrupted her with a squeal of delight. He threw his arms around her, and his excitement became slightly more coherent. "Babe! This is . . . This is . . . ! A baby! Oh my God, you're having a baby. This is the best damn news! Ok, the worst damn time, but babe. A _baby."_ He pulled back to kiss her, but even that did not curtail his excitement long.

"I love you so much," he rambled. "You've made me so freaking happy. Oh, goddamn. I'm going to be a father. With you! Babe. _Babe._ You are _amazing._ You're having a baby! _"_

His voice was getting worrisomely high-pitched. Kori looked over at Jason, a little flustered. She hadn't expected Roy to be so exuberant about this, particularly on the heels of such a tragedy. Perhaps this outpouring of joy was in direct response to it. Out of tragedy came a joyous moment; from death came life.

Jason's joy was quieter, but it transformed his face. All the hard edges softened, leaving him looking years younger, and, in her opinion, far more handsome. "That's wonderful, Kor," he praised her before leaning in to press a firm kiss to her cheek. "I'm so happy for you guys."

"Jason! Kori's having a baby!" Roy exclaimed, as if he could have possibly missed the first announcement.

He gave her a fond look over the top of Roy's head. "I heard. Congratulations, you two."

"Are we keeping it a secret?" Roy asked. "Or may I tell people? May I tell _everyone we know_?"

"Let's start with everyone at the Manor, huh?" Jason suggested as he steered them towards the exit. "I mean, I kinda want to see the look on Dick's face when we tell him. Don't you?"

Kori shot Jason a look. She was beyond her former lover, although she would always care greatly for him. Roy, on the other hand, still suffered from moments of insecurity.

Unless she was very wrong, so did Jason.

Thankfully, Roy hadn't been listening. "We're going to have to tell the old man, aren't we?" Roy asked, deflating momentarily. "Ugh. Queen is such a _dick_ sometimes."

"I thought you wanted to tell everyone we know, my love?" She asked him, slipping her hand into his.

He brightened immediately. "Do you think it will be a girl? I kinda like the idea of having a girl. Oh, but a boy would be good too. What would you rather, a boy or a girl?"

Warmed by his enthusiasm, Kori laughed. "I don't mind either way," she admitted. "As long as it's healthy, and happy, and whole."

* * *

 **June 25th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 8:17 AM**

 **Day 5**

 **...**

 **...**

There was barely enough time for Tim Drake to handle (i.e. repress by any means necessary) his fears for Kon's safety before the next New League meeting was called. Jason and the Outlaws hadn't even had enough time to make it back to the Manor before Bruce shuttled him, Dick, and Damian down to the Batcave. Shazam was the only guest at the Manor, and far too ill to leave his bed, so it was their turn to attend the New League meeting via the supercomputer in the Batcave. They all hunched around it, and while their protected chat system booted up, the monitor reflected their faces.

Bruce was wearing his cowl, and thus his expression impenetrable, but Tim was struck by the grim expression on Dick's face. He had been eerily calm when he heard the news about Metropolis, although he had thawed slightly when Tim let him know Hood and the Outlaws were safe, and on their way back.

Tim's own expression was no better. His eyes were too wide, and there was a thin tendril of panic that made it impossible to center himself. He took a deep breath and tried regardless, while his eyes slid to Damian's face in the reflection. The youngest Robin's expression was little different than the one he adopted for all his missions. He had been here long enough to understand the blow of losing Metropolis, but not long enough to develop enough empathy to be crippled by it.

 _Perhaps that's what we all need,_ Tim thought. _Maybe Damian's handling this the best of all of us, for once._

One by one faces flickered onto the screen, until the monitor was split into equal columns and rows, displaying the Flash, Green Arrow, Black Canary, Plastic Man, Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Huntress, Carol Ferris (who had stayed in the community even after her time as Star Sapphire was over) and Oracle. Even Shayera Hall had been able to check in, although no one knew how long she'd be able to stay. The only ones missing were Red Hood, Arsenal, and Starfire, who were on their way back and would be debriefed then; John Stewart, who was unable to break cover, and Shazam, who had been unconscious for the last six hours. His magic was eating away at him, and unless he wrested its control away from the magic used by the Iconoclasts, Bruce admitted there was a chance that it could destroy him.

It was Barbara who began the meeting. "There's no time, so I won't take long. Half an hour ago one of our contacts came through with an urgent message. We have the coordinates of an abandoned research facility they believe may be connected to the destruction of Metropolis. What we need are volunteers to determine if this is true."

"Trap," Green Arrow muttered.

"Amen to that," Huntress agreed.

"It is our _only lead,_ " Barbara stressed.

Bruce was silent. He didn't like it, and neither did anyone else in the Batcave. "This is ridiculous," Dick muttered. "They only managed to get the coordinates _after_ the attack? Something about this doesn't feel right."

Tim agreed, as did half those watching. Everyone began talking over each other, offering up their own insights until a reedy voice cut through them all.

"Guys, guys," Plastic Man interrupted them. "Come on. I'm the obvious candidate. I'll go."

"Pat—" Dinah tried.

"No, no," he talked over her. "I _literally cannot die_. Worst they can do is set me back a couple months, and that's if they get a better toy gun than their last one."

"Not if they take you captive," Bruce pointed out.

Patrick laughed. "Bruce, have you met me? No prison can hold me for long. Again, literally."

"But will you be able to decipher the most pertinent information?" The Flash asked. "I'm not insulting your intelligence, but you're more of a lateral thinker than a logical one. I can go with you, help you determine the most critical data."

"That seems like a solid plan," Shayera agreed. "Better to have backup in case something goes wrong. No offense, Putty-Guy."

"None taken, Bird-Nose," Plastic Man quipped back.

"No," Bruce said. "If we send someone in, Plastic Man should go in alone. He specializes in stealth, and he is in fact, immortal. We can't risk Flash or anyone else on this."

"But the data!" Flash protested.

"We have other ways of getting that information," Oracle said cryptically, looking directly at the Batcave's section of the monitor.

"Shit, gotta go," Shayera mumbled, before she abruptly switched off her wrist-device. Her section of the screen went blank.

"Am I going in mic'd, boss?" Plastic Man asked. "Because you're cramping my style if you stick me with the solid stuff. Going liquid is kind of my shtick."

"What's the last part of your body that you liquify?" Bruce asked.

"Say whaaaaat?" Plastic Man asked, his thin eyebrows climbing up his forehead. "That sounds kind of naughty, Bruce."

Tim saw where he was going with this and broke in before Bruce could shake, strangle, and/or verbally emasculate the easy-going hero. "When you go liquid, what's the last part of you that you keep solid?"

Plastic Man scratched his head. "Uh . . . my eyes, I guess? Then I can still see what's going on in the regular way. And they're a bitch to reform, I'll give you that."

"Giving him the contacts, Batman?" Oracle asked.

He nodded, and addressed Plastic Man. "If you're determined to do this, you won't be going in blind."

Green Arrow perked up. "Did Bruce just make a joke? Shut the front door."

"Oliver, I swear to God . . ." Black Canary warned him.

"Plastic, how close are you to Gotham?" Dick asked, cutting them off.

"Couple hours."

"We'll outfit you in the Batcave," Bruce said. "Oracle will give you the coordinates then. Everyone else, stay in close contact. If anything else happens— _anything—_ let us all know."

As soon as everyone else had signed off, Bruce turned to Dick. "I don't like this," he growled.

"Because it's a trap?" Damian pointed out, acerbically.

"Not just that," Bruce replied. "It's something more than that. I just can't . . ." He trailed off, searching for a way to describe the feeling.

Tim thought he understood a little. _It feels like this trap may trigger others,_ he thought, but there was nothing concrete to back it up.

* * *

 **June 25th, 20xx**

 **-, 9:12 AM**

 **Day 5**

The two figures in the shower moaned as they clung to each other. Water pounded down on them, sluicing away dirt, grime, and their inhibitions.

"Need you," one rasped as he leaned down to lick his partner's neck. "God, I needed you so much last night."

"I'm here," his lover replied. "Baby, I'm always here."

"I couldn't—I couldn't do it. Couldn't shoot—I thought I'd lose you," he ground out, choking back a groan when his lover reached for what hung thick and heavy between his legs. "Thought I'd fuck it all up. _Again_."

His lover slipped down, trailing kisses over his corded thighs. "Not now. Not over this. Not with me." The earnest promise was augmented by a soft kiss to the head of his penis. "I love you too much for that."

"Oh, shit, I—" He groaned as his lover sucked him down. For a long time after there were no discernable words. Just praises and endearments uttered by both upon reaching their climaxes—a feat more desperately beautiful when it was a brief spark of light and love in a dark, hopeless time.

* * *

 **June 25th, 20xx**

 **Wayne Manor, 9:27 AM**

 **Day 5**

 **..**

 **...**

Billy awoke, and he was not himself. Over the last five days, the dark energy had engulfed him so completely that he steadily felt like a tiny spark of light in a dark place; or an island in the midst of a roiling ocean.

Now, there was not even that. He had been completely subsumed by the dark energy.

 _No, no, no!_ He struggled, flailing against the encroaching dark. _I'm not even angry. I'm not feeling anything at all!_ He could not rage outwardly. His body was no longer under his control. He could not wiggle his fingers, call for help, nor even blink. He could breathe, but even that range of control was limited. His attempts to hyperventilate failed, as the dark energy calmed his body as faster than he could rile it.

There was one last recourse. Concentrating, he sent out an all-access telepathic cry, hoping to reach anyone who might help or hear him.

 _Help me!_ He managed to articulate, _Please, it's got me!_

From far off, an accented, loathsomely familiar voice replied. _Billy?_

 _Yes! Help—_

A great curtain came down in his mind, cutting off all communication. The dark ocean was in his mind, rushing in from all corners, frothing and roiling and dragging Billy down into the undertow. He screamed once, and then he was gone.

The thing that was Shazam sat up. It mechanically swung one leg onto the floor, followed by the other. It stood, wobbling a little as it found his balance. It took a step towards the door, and then lifted his arm so that it pointed towards the door. With a creak, the door swung open all on its own. Sitting in the hallway just a few steps past the door sat three-year-old Michael Wilson.

He beamed up at him. "Hi!" He said brightly. All about him, colored pieces of plastic were strewn. "'M playing legos. Wanna playa me?"

Shazam hesitated. It reached down slowly, fingers grasping for the boy. At the last moment, it picked up a lego piece from the floor next to the boy's knee. It handed the lego to the boy, who, not knowing how close he had come to mortal danger, smiled up at him.

"Bye Mr. Shazam!" Michael called out after the thing wearing Shazam's flesh.

It did not turn to acknowledge the boy.

* * *

 **June 25th, 20xx**

 **Outer reaches of Solar System, 12:07 PM**

 **Day 5**

 **...**

 **...**

Hal Jordan stared out the window of the spaceship, watching the edges of his home galaxy slowly grow larger. _The Horizon,_ or so it would be called in English, was one of the fastest in the Oan fleet, yet he begrudged every hour it took to reach Earth. It would be another day before they reached Earth's atmosphere, and he was losing his sainted mind wondering what was happening down there. Had the Ikons moved openly? Were their machinations obvious? It was too late to save those who didn't possess human DNA, and he grieved for them, but how many of his human friends had been compromised, or killed?

Had Carol been targeted? No, now that they had finally defeated her Star Sapphire persona, she was barely in the super community as it was. Surely they'd leave her alone. Barry would have been hit, no doubt, but Hal couldn't imagine anything bad happening to him. Not _Barry._ Not when he could outrun anything.

Not after Hal had promised Iris . . .

Hal exhaled roughly. Ollie and Dinah would have been targeted as well, but as long as they stayed together, they would be fine. Not to mention Diana, Arthur, Bruce, Victor, Billy . . .

 _They are all fine, Harold Jordan,_ he scolded himself. _Now stop worrying yourself to death. Focus on your mission._

But that was the hardest part, wasn't it? He had to go to Earth, alone, leaving Clark and J'onn with the Oans. He had to convince everyone that there were angles to this war that no one had uncovered yet. That there were traitors in their midst, and they could be _anyone._

Hal leaned his forehead against the cool glass, and remembered.

 _"Appa," Hal interrupted. "Just tell us where they are, will you?"_

 _"Oh," Appa murmured. "I thought you'd determined that already. Earth. They're on Earth."_

Hal knew what was coming the moment before it did, but he was too slow to stop it. Clark _roared_ , and shot straight up into the air. He would have torn through the roof of the cave had he not jerked to an abrupt stop. He was surrounded by a vivid green light, but it was not the color of a lantern's light. It was the crystal green cage of kryptonite, shining forth from Appa's ring. Clark sank back down to the floor, unable to break through. From the looks of it, he was stymied, but not in pain.

"Let him go," J'onn threatened Appa.

"Not until he cools his head," the elderly guardian replied. "Rushing off to Earth will not help anyone. You are not human, Kal-El. If you return before the magic pulse is obliterated, it will kill you."

"Kon. _Kara,"_ Clark choked out, gaze swinging over to J'onn. "And M'gann! They're all on Earth! How can you be so calm?"

J'onn J'onnz closed his eyes. "Haste will not save them. Nor avenge them." He slit his eyes open at Appa. "Is what you told us true? That any alien on earth would have died when the pulse activated?"

Appa nodded sadly. "Any being without human DNA would have been eradicated immediately. I'm sorry."

Clark's head snapped up. " _Kon._ What about half-bloods? Half-humans?"

Appa's head tilted to the side as he considered. "The pulse cannot harm anyone with native or Ikonian DNA. There have been tales in the past of pregnant women surviving the pulse, all because they carried a small amount of native DNA within them. If those tales are correct, even a very small amount of human DNA would be enough. I imagine a half-human would have survived easily."

Clark let out a ragged exhale. J'onn clenched his fists.

"Appa, if there's anything else you can tell us, now is the time," Hal said. His head was spinning, but this wasn't the time to be stunned. His losses weren't as personal as Clark's and J'onn's, so he needed to be calm, level-headed. He had not just lost a member of his family, and he needed to step up and be a goddamn Green Lantern.

"I've told you all I know," Appa said. "I apologize for the lack of specificity, but all I have to go on are their tactics from millennia ago. There will be five or six shapeshifters, and they will have targeted the most powerful beings on your planet. I cannot tell you who they are or how to determine them. Let your friends at home determine the imposters. You are needed to stop the second wave of invading Ikons, the ones who will descend en masse to prepare the planet for colonization."

Clark stood, an enormous effort when he was still subdued from the effects of Appa's kryptonite-enhanced ring. "You can't tell us all this and then demand we stay here! We have to warn them!"

"Do you have so little faith in them? Perhaps they already know," Appa challenged them. "Perhaps they have already countered the threat."

"We aren't playing dice with our friends' lives," Hal growled. A beam of energy shot out from his own ring, bisecting Appa's. _Don't cross the beams!_ He could imagine Ollie yelling, but this time it was just what he needed. His energy overrode Appa's, his will stronger than the guardian's. Appa's ring went out, and Clark was free.

Appa raised his hand again but Hal stood between them. " _Listen to me,"_ he growled, primarily at Appa but he hoped Clark was listening in as well."This isn't going to go the way you want, so take what you can get. Clark and J'onn will stay and help the Oans fight off the Ikons. I will go back to Earth."

"Hal—" Clark protested, but Hal cut him off.

"No, Clark. Until we shut that magic beam bullshit down, you guys are barred from the planet. I will send word to the Watchtower about Kon, and when it's safe to return. You guys gotta' stay here and kick some Ikon ass, and then some _Oan_ ass, because what the fuck do they think they're doing hiding this from us? This is our planet!" He finished, addressing Appa. "Why didn't they _tell_ us?"

"They wanted to be wrong," Appa said sadly. "For the Ikons to have amassed enough strength for a hostile takeover, they would once again be a serious adversary. We barely defeated them before, and they are likely stronger than ever. We all prayed we were wrong."

"Yeah, well, you weren't," Clark said harshly. "And now we've lost people we love."

"You will lose more if the Ikons are not stopped," Appa pointed out.

"You stuck your head in the sand and asked us to trust you!"

Appa frowned. "I'm not sure what sand has to do with this, but I accept my part of the blame for my people's actions. I apologize, Kal-el. To all of you," he added, panning so he included both J'onn and Hal.

This argument was not going to be resolved any time soon. Appa had done what he thought best, but he had been too slow in doing it. Clark and J'onn were never going to appreciate being left behind when their friends, colleagues, and teammates were suffering. Hal was lucky enough that they were listening to him so far, and not fighting him harder on this.

"Appa, thank you for telling us all this, but we have to get going." He said. "I'm going to meet with our commanders and let them know we have been apprised of the situation."

Appa nodded. "Before you go, I have something for you." He reached pulled off his ring and extended it to Hal.

Hal looked down at it. "Thanks, but I've already got one."

"You misunderstand me," Appa said. "This is a far more powerful ring than your own. Unlike yours, it operates at a baseline 185% capacity, rather than 100%. It also does not need to be charged with each turn of your Earth. Or ever, really." He sighed. "It _does_ carry faint but inherent weakness to the color yellow—I am not as brave as you, and I have influenced the ring in wearing it—but resistance to fear is a natural strength of yours. I believe you will be able to offset my failings."

"No charging?" Hal asked, stunned. "Not ever?"

"No. It is a sister ring to one a previous human Green Lantern bore, a man named Alan Scott. It is powered by the same mystical process. I cannot bequeath it unto you forever, but while the Ikons are still a threat, I present it to you on loan."

"Shit," Hal breathed, turning the ring over in his fingers. "I mean, thanks. 185%? That's . . . wow, thanks."

"It is a practical decision," Appa said wryly. "Their magic blocks most others. Your ring, powered by the Central Power Battery, would be useless. This one should be effective."

"We need to go," Clark said as he paced the cave restlessly. "I can't stand to look at you, right now."

Hal didn't ask whether he meant him or Appa. It was a toss up, and knowing wouldn't help much.

"Let us return to the Oan ship," J'onn counselled. "Then Hal can set off for Earth all the sooner."

The three heroes all turned to the cave opening. J'onn and Clark shot off, racing off towards the ship. Hal hung back, looking at Appa one last time.

"Be wary," the Mad Guardian warned him. "They are merciless and will stop at nothing. Be prepared to do whatever you must to protect your home."

" _Sounds like Thursday,"_ Hal had quipped then, and repeated now as he came back to himself. He opened his eyes to see the galaxy spreading out before him.

" _Hold on, everybody,"_ he murmured. _"Cavalry's coming."_

* * *

 **June 25th, 20xx**

 **Batcave, 10:42 PM**

 **Day 5**

 **...**

 **...**

Tim stumbled into the Batcave after a three hour patrol that felt twice that long. In the past 24 hours Gotham had become a hive of theft, rape, murder, grand theft auto, and a few strikes that hinted at something more sinister. Nothing on the scale of terrorist attacks Metropolis had seen before its destruction, but enough to exhaust the bat team. Minor villains from every part of America were flying in to roost, looking to step into the power vacuum and take advantage of the Bat family's overworked state. They'd had their hands full, and Gotham's police force—overwhelmed at best, hapless at worst—was little help.

It was getting to all of them in different ways. Bruce was at his best, of course. He always was when the pressure hit. He was fast, efficient, and ruthless, a veritable crime-fighting machine. Such a pace couldn't be healthy, nor could it be sustained long. Tim worried for him, but knew there was nothing he could do to make the burden any easier.

Damian was clearly trying to be a carbon copy of his beloved father. It was easiest for him to slip into apathy, to be nothing more than a battle-hardened soldier. He was a growing boy, however, and his body was giving him trouble. He was hungry all the time, and had mentioned odd pains in his arms and legs.

"You literally have growing pains," Tim had informed him the last time they were on patrol together. "That's all it is. It'll stop when you stop growing."

" _You_ are a pain," Damian had moodily replied. "Now are you going to feed me, or shall I assassinate a hot dog vendor and eat all his wares?"

Jason had been quietly added back onto the patrol rota when it was clear that they were all run ragged, with the silent agreement that he and Bruce would never be paired together. The assassination missions were over. Oracle had created and set up an impassable firewall just in time, and between that and the nine assassinations, the hacking attempts had slowed to a trickle. He left Kori and Roy to take on their own patrols, in the parts of Gotham they were more accustomed to. When he had patrolled with Tim, Jason approached everything with a grim seriousness that made Tim think he was only one step away from shooting everyone who crossed him in the head, just to keep it all moving faster.

On the other hand, Dick had looked over at him about halfway through the patrol they'd just come back from and joked, "Tim, after this, I'm putting in for retirement."

Tim had laughed hysterically. It was that or cry, and he was not ready to be weak, yet.

He was ready for sleep, however. He'd only gotten an hour or two of sleep since Metropolis fell; since another nail hammered itself into the coffin of his best friend. All he had to do was report in, strip off his Red Robin costume, and then fall into bed. With the way he was feeling, he might be asleep before he finished step 2.

He was passing by the lockers when he heard something from the main room. " . . . your manor, and he escaped! Where do you think the blame will fall?"

Tim frowned. The voice was familiar, but in his exhausted state he couldn't quite place it. He poked his head out from behind the locker room's door.

"Squarely on his shoulders, Jim. I'm not saying Shazam is inculpable. But there is more at play here than simple guilt or innocence."

Bruce was hunched over the computer, partially blocking the monitor. There were dozens of windows scattered around the screen, and the largest of these was dedicated to an audio-visual line with James Gordon, Commissioner of Gotham.

Tim crept closer, and listened in to the rest of the conversation.

"I don't know what to say, Bruce. It's all over the goddamn media. Since 10 o'clock this morning he's been cutting a swathe through the United States. Whole towns were destroyed in his wake. Lightning everywhere. Last I heard, the death toll was more than 30,000. There's no coming back from that."

"Shazam is not choosing to do this, Gordon. He is being manipulated. Our enemy has somehow gained control of him."

Commissioner Gordon shook his head. "Doesn't matter now. The whole country is baying for his blood. It's not gonna take long to move from one superhero to _all_ superheroes. You gotta protect yourself and the boys, Bruce. You gotta do what's right."

"We will stop him," Bruce promised. "But we cannot hand him over to be killed without understanding _how_ and _why_ they did this. If we could break the hold they have on him, we are a step closer to overthrowing them."

Gordon sighed. He ran a hand through his greying hair, and adjusted his glasses. "I'm on your side, Bruce. I always have been, always will be. And I'll help you if I can, but I don't see how. Ask me to tighten up patrols on Gotham, I can do that. I _will_ do that. But Shazam? What can I do against him?"

"Nothing," Bruce said abruptly. "I'm not asking you to. He is our problem, now."

"What can I do for you, then?" Gordon asked.

Bruce hesitated. "Do you have any news on Arkham?"

"Arkham?" Gordon sounded surprised. "Just that it's on lockdown. Standard procedure, especially since Metropolis . . . Metropolis." He finished with a huff, and shook his head. "Catwoman, right? I wouldn't worry about her, Bruce. She's probably safer than we are, right now."

"Not with the Joker incarcerated," Bruce muttered darkly.

"Maybe someone will do us a favor and do him in," Gordon agreed. "Hell, maybe it'll be your girlfriend. I'd pardon her for that."

"You can't actually do that, Jim."

"If the Joker died, I doubt anybody would stop me."

Bruce sighed. "I have to go. Thank you for meeting with me."

"Keep in touch, Bruce. Let me know if you need anything."

Bruce signed off, and then looked down at the console. _"He must have already talked to Barbara,_ " he muttered to himself.

"Why do you say that?" Tim asked. He took a muted pleasure in seeing Bruce whip around. It was rare to sneak up on Bruce. It was probably not a good sign that he had just done it.

"He didn't threaten me about her personal safety, for one thing," Bruce said.

Tim nodded. As if Barbara would let her father's worries dictate her fate. She'd thrown herself into danger for the last 15+ years without her father's approval.

" _Is_ Shazam being manipulated?" Tim asked. "Are we certain?"

Bruce sighed. "My gut says yes. Billy would never, _ever_ choose this, and the security cameras attest that _something_ changed. Until we stop him we won't know for certain."

"How are we going to stop Shazam?" Tim asked. He regretted having to do so. He liked Billy, even though it was a little awkward talking to him. Sometimes he seemed every inch the hero; confident, experienced, brave. Other times, he seemed so _young,_ almost like he was closer to Tim's age than Bruce's. It was an odd affectation for a man in his prime, a good fifteen years older than Tim.

"We might not be able to," Bruce replied. "Without Arthur and Diana, Billy is inarguably the most powerful being on Earth."

Tim blinked. "If we can't take him down, what are we going to do?"

Bruce gave him that steely, thousand-yard stare that still had the power to make Tim feel like he was 12-year-old boy. Young, untested, and definitely not ready or worthy to measure up to Batman's standards. Then he turned back to his computer, pulling up another window.

The Watchtower communication link dominated the screen. Tim's eyes widened when he saw the familiar figure sitting on the other end of the monitor.

"Kon," he breathed.

"We send him in," Bruce said. He laid a hand on Tim's shoulder. "I have to go patrol. Take this time to talk."

Bruce escaped before Tim could summon up the wherewithal to be anything other than stunned. Grateful, but stunned. All at once it hit him. Bruce had known Kon was alive the entire time. Bruce had not told him this. Bruce had allowed him to think that _Kon was dead_.

Kon's approach was straightforward as usual. "Heya, Tim. Buddy. Timbuddy. You've got that murder look on your face. Please tell me it's not directed at me."

Tim's first attempt at answer was an enraged growl. His second was a nonsense stream of syllables. His third was more coherent: "He didn't fucking tell me! I thought you were dead!"

Kon threw up his arms. "I don't like it any better than you do! I wanted to tell you right away, but he's right. He needed you not to know. "

Tim was so furious he couldn't see straight. "How can you say that? Do you know what I went through? _I thought you were dead!_ "

"And I watched my city be annihilated!" Kon yelled back. "Do you think I enjoy this? Watching my friends and loved ones _die_ when I'm stuck in outer fucking space?" He took a deep breath and his expression turned pleading. "I wanted to tell you, Tim. I begged Batman to tell you, but he needed your reaction to be genuine. If he and Oracle were going to hide my survival from everyone, you needed to be blindsided."

Tim blamed his inability to piece this together on the combination of his crippling rage with Bruce, and his relief that Kon was alive. Alive and well and arguing with him, just as it should be. "Why is it so damned important that you're hidden? You—I just . . ." He shook his head. "How did you make it up there, anyway? The Watchtower's totally closed off. And how did you survive the pulse?"

Kon smiled weakly. "I didn't. I was poisoned the night before the pulse went off. I barely got to the Watchtower in time, and detoxed in one of the med tanks. And yeah, it was on lockdown, but it let me in because it registered Clark's DNA. Guess he and Bats have a backdoor installed. Jesus, I have never been glad to be a clone before."

"Poisoned?" Tim said, and then it hit him. "Kon. They must have thought you wouldn't be susceptible to the pulse. Otherwise they wouldn't have resorted to that."

Kon nodded. "That's what Batman and Oracle think, too. Maybe half-human is human enough for the Icono-whatevers. They still want me in reserve, though. Not just to guard the Watchtower, but also so I can stay hidden from the spies."

"Spies," Tim said flatly. "Does Bruce know who they are?"

Kon shrugged. "You think he's gonna tell me that? I've been sitting up here monitoring every piece of communication I can get my hands on— _and_ helping with that god awful firewall, shit, Tim, I am so bad at coding—but I can't figure out who it is. I mean, I know who it can't be, but there's still a few too many possibles for who it can."

"How many would you project?" Tim asked. It was easier to slip into Red Robin mode and to deal with the logistics. He knew that he was repressed as hell, but he couldn't deal with his emotions right now. Even though a lot of them were jumping up and down shouting _Kon's alive! My best friend's alive! I'm not the last Titan left!_

"Two? Maybe three? I mean they obviously have al Ghul's League of Shadows and Luthor's assets. And in the poison they used on me, there were traces of not only kryptonite, but Venom."

" _That's_ why Bruce was so sure Bane was involved," Tim realized. "He's the only one mad enough to dabble with Venom who's not locked up in Arkham."

Kon winced. "Yeah, Arkham. Did you know they've been off the grid ever since the Iconoclasts attacked? I can't tell you exactly when, 'cuz I was dying and all, but Batman is losing his mind over it. We can't even access his hidden base on the island. You can imagine how that is going over."

Tim stared at Kon. His resolve to stay in Red Robin mode was flickering, and all he wanted to do now was punch Kon, punch Bruce, and then hug them both. Maybe punch Damian too, for good measure, but there wouldn't be a hug at the end of that.

Kon gave a weak grin. "Keep looking at me like that and you're gonna make me blush, bud."

"You're alive," Tim said simply. "I thought—Kon, you have to know. About Artemis, Garfield, _Cassie . . ."_

Kon's face fell. It flattened into something almost unrecognizable. "I know. Kara, too. I can't talk about it. Not yet. Not when I'm stuck up here."

"Maybe not for long. If we can't stop Shazam . . ." Tim trailed off.

"Then I come back and face him." Kon didn't sound enthusiastic about the prospect.

"Are we _sure_ that the pulse won't kill you? What if it weakens you?"

"No idea," Kon admitted. "So while I want to come back and fight with you guys, I think you gotta try to take him down yourselves." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "Shit. Out of everyone here, I never thought _Shazam_ would go dark side."

"He didn't," Tim said. "He's being manipulated. You know how that is."

Kon looked down. Luthor, the donor of his human DNA, had installed control mechanisms into his own body. Kon had been controlled before, and it had been a terrible struggle to break free. "Yeah," he admitted roughly. "But I didn't kill all those people. Shazam did."

"Kon—"

"Do you think he's gonna be ok, after this? I felt bad enough when I hurt those close to me. He's got the blood of how many thousands of innocents on his hands?"

"We need him to fight the Iconoclasts."

"What if we can't free him from their control in the first place? Then his power is only going to be used against us."

"I don't know, Kon!" Tim exploded. "I just need to figure out a way to do this that doesn't end in me losing anyone else, ok?"

Kon settled back in his chair. "I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly. "It's not gonna be like last time. I promise."

Tim swallowed around the thick lump in his throat. He was reaching the end of his tether, and unless he wanted to burst into tears in front of Kon—and wouldn't that be the clincher to his day—he needed to _sleep._ "Kon, I'm glad to see you, but I gotta crash."

Kon nodded. "Go on, bud. You look awful. Come talk to me again when you've had your beauty sleep, ok?"

Tim scowled at him, but it was half-hearted. "As soon as I can," he promised before signing off.

Tim's plans to fall immediately into bed were foiled by Damian, Dick, and Jason arguing in the Manor's main hall. For a fleeting moment he was surprised to see Damian still here, as he was patrolling with Bruce tonight, but then he noticed that the door leading to the kitchen was open, and the light was on. Bruce was either checking in with Alfred, or was being force-fed before a long patrol. Maybe both, but it still left Tim's three bat brothers to contend with, and Damian's hands were clenched into fists. Clearly Tim needed to resolve this, as they were all that stood between he and his bed. How best to defuse the situation quickly without resorting to bloodshed?

Tim had an idea, and he was just loopy enough to put it into motion.

"The two of you are never going to get any better if you won't patrol together," Dick scolded, and it was not immediately apparent who he was addressing. It looked as if he was talking about Damian and Jason, but they had patrolled together just yesterday.

"He is _not_ patrolling with Father!" Damian argued, clearing up Tim's confusion. "He doesn't need to be patrolling with us at all!"

"I am _right here,"_ Jason said, aggrieved. He was slightly quieter than Dick and Damian, but not by much. "And Bruce doesn't want to patrol with me either. Nobody's feelings are hurt, Dick, just let it go."

"I can't let it go. Not when we're dropping like flies!"

Tim squeezed in between them, and, ignoring everything, gave Jason the biggest hug he'd ever given anyone in his life.

The foyer fell silent so quickly one could have heard a pin drop. Jason's body felt like a marble statue. _Jesus,_ Tim thought. _What do I have to do to get abs like that?_ And then, _I am so tired I may just fall asleep riiiiiiiight here, on his abs of adamantium. Christ._

"Uhhhhh," Jason said, in a moment of rare eloquence.

Damian recovered first. "What on earth are you doing? Drake, have you lost your mind?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw Dick frozen in place, his eyebrows up near his hairline. Sneaking up on Bruce and then stunning Dick into immobility? He was 2 for 2, and that felt _great._

"You were right," Tim mumbled. "I can't give up believing in Kon."

"Uhhh," Jason tried again. "Yes. That."

Dick stepped closer, looking concerned. "Tim, has there been word on Kon?"

Tim shook his head without lifting it off of Jason's chest. "I won't give up," he said instead. "I will believe in him."

"This is disgusting," Damian tsked. "Take your love affair with the bumbling Superboy somewhere _else,_ Drake."

"Ours is the bromance to end all bromances." Tim yawned as he quoted Stephanie. There wasn't an ounce of romantic or sexual attraction between them, but he couldn't deny they were abnormally co-dependent. It was part of why the younger group of the Teen Titans had been so damn efficient, and also their best-friendship.

"Ooooooook," Jason said. He carefully patted Tim on the shoulder. "I think baby bird needs to get to bed. He's sleep talking."

"Carry me," Tim demanded sleepily.

Dick's wide-eyed stare somehow grew even more astonished. Between that and Kon, this may be one of the better days of Tim's life.

Damian threw up his arms and flounced off. "Disgusting!" He hissed. "What the hell is _wrong_ with this family?"

"Family, huh?" Jason said, his chest rumbling against Tim's cheek. "Welp. Duty calls," he said to Dick. Then, he hoisted Tim straight up, folding him over his shoulder like he was a sack of potatoes.

It was jarring enough to wake Tim from his daze. "This is not very romantic," he informed Jason's shoulder holsters.

"Buck up, buttercup," was Jason's cheerful reply. "At least you get to sleep, now."

* * *

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Wayne Manor, 5:42 AM**

 **Day 6**

 **...**

 **...**

Alfred Pennyworth had seen more than his share of difficult mornings in his time serving the Wayne family. More so when that family branched out into the fondly dubbed 'Bat' family. He was well-used to the rigours needed to keep a household of crime fighters at their best, but he was getting old. Waking this early was beginning to be a trial, particularly when there was a rambunctious toddler climbing up the mattress with no attempt at stealth.

Alfred peeked open one of his eyes as Michael Wilson pulled himself up the mattress, straining up on his toes on the box spread. His little tongue poked out of the side of his mouth as he concentrated. Alfred opened his eyes fully, but took care not to move suddenly. If he were to startle the boy, he might topple over backwards, and then the morning would be begun with tears and wailing.

Michael looked up at him and smiled. It was peculiar that two grim-faced individuals, at least, in Alfred's experience of them, could produce a child that smiled like a veritable ray of sunshine.

"G'mornin' Mister Afred!" The boy chirped. "Unca Dick say time'ah breakfast. He say we can alllll eat in ya bed!"

Alfred paled. _Oh, saints preserve us,_ he thought. Richard was a terror in the kitchen, and still, after all these years, was unreliable with anything more difficult than toast. Damian was exactly the same, and Tim was little better. Had it been Jason in the kitchen Alfred would have been wary, but accepting. Out of all of the boys he alone had interest and ability in the culinary arts, although it likely had more to do with a childhood spent on the streets, where fear of starvation was an ever-present and unwelcome shadow.

"Not if 'Uncle Dick' is cooking," he said, unwilling to lie to the child. "Hup hup, little one. As soon as I am dressed we shall save the kitchen."

"Save the kitchen!" Michael agreed, clearly tickled with the idea. He held his arms up, signalling his defeat to scale Mount Alfred's Bed. Alfred picked him up and pulled him onto the bed, before easing his creaky bones out of it. As he dressed, Michael played with his two new favorite toys —a plastic stegosaurus, and a barbie doll that was dressed like a gymnast. Alfred had no earthly idea how either of the toys had ended up in the Manor. He suspected Richard, but the barbie doll was throwing him. Had he gone out and purchased the boy a barbie? Or had that somehow just been laying around?

When they reached the kitchen, Alfred was relieved to see that Richard had not yet begun to cook. Perhaps the threat had been an empty one, and was simply to rouse Alfred fifteen minutes earlier than usual?

"Morning, Alfred. Time for breakfast?" Richard asked hopefully, and it was with the exact same amount of cheek as he'd utilized as a boy of twelve.

"Monin' tea?" Michael asked, who had, after five days of living in Manor and acting as 'Alfred's helper,' had the morning routine down pat.

"Quite right, Master Michael," Alfred said. "Can you tell Mas—I mean, _Uncle Dick_ what his options are?"

Richard was grinning widely. He'd led a minor crusade to get the boy to call him that, and now that he'd won, Alfred worried over the natural progression of this. Richard knew that 'Uncle Bruce' would be a step too far, didn't he?

Michael spun on the bar stool. He looked up at his favorite new uncle and very seriously recited, "Ooh long, Chinese peekout, English breakfast, or sai."

"Chai," Alfred corrected him gently. He'd leave Chinese Pekoe for another day.

"What about coffee?" Richard asked. "Can you ask the chef if that's ok?"

Michael wrinkled his nose. "Coffee is yucky. Don't drink that."

Richard laughed and pulled the tot into his lap. "We'll eat whatever Uncle Alfred brings us, right kiddo?"

Michael, eminently pleased to be made much of, did not resist. Alfred set to preparing a big batch of scrambled eggs with chopped vegetables and breakfast sausage. When next he turned around, Michael was still in Richard's lap, but they were both holding a knife and fork in each hand, fists down on the table.

It was such a precious image that it made Alfred's venerable heart flutter. Here was his happiest Robin, wearing a matching smile with the tot on his lap. Michael's eyes and skin were darker than Richard's, but they could have been father and son. Alfred had to turn back to the eggs to keep his composure. He loved all his Robins, and the extended members of the Bat family, but he longed for Bruce and his boys to find happiness in a more traditional way. To see Richard like this gave life to that long-buried hope.

"You're a natural with the boy," he remarked as he plated their eggs. "One would think you were born to fatherhood."

Alfred stole a glance at Richard's face as he set the plates down in front of them. It was just in time to see an odd expression flit across his face. Not quite disappointment, but not quite resignation, either.

"Thanks, Alfred," Richard said. He nudged Michael. "What do we say?"

Michael looked up at him. "Thank you Mista Afred!" He set to with a messy will, and soon, remnants of his breakfast scattered the counter, his plate, and Richard's lap.

Richard ate more sedately, taking care not to jostle the little one in his lap. When he used his napkin to swab Michael's face, Alfred's heart became too full to hold his tongue. "Do you plan on having children of your own, Master Richard?"

Richard's face went still. Alfred could not tell what he was thinking, and that in itself was unnerving. "I do not," he said quietly.

That was a surprise. "May I ask why?"

Richard fixed a false grin on his face. "It doesn't exactly fit the life I've chosen, does it? Besides, other people need me more."

Alfred frowned. "If you feel beholden to Bruce to continue fighting crime—"

"No, no," Richard interrupted. "Not at all. Are you kidding me? Bruce would be so freaking happy if I had a kid. I mean, in his own repressed way, of course." He shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Alfred. It's my own choice, and believe me, I've thought about it at length."

It was clear to Alfred that Richard was not speaking from his heart, however. He venerated his natural and adoptive families, and would do anything to protect them. How could that not translate into having a family of his own? "Does the reluctance lie with Miss Gordon, then? Perhaps when all this is done, it might be possible to change her mind. I don't mean to meddle, but I don't want you to miss out on this particular happiness."

"There's no future for Babs and I," Richard said, more firmly than Alfred expected. "She's not the person for me."

"I apologize," Alfred said, even though he meant no such thing. "It was simply to something to consider. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go and see if Master Bruce will be eating breakfast today. Could you watch the little one for a moment?"

"Sure," Richard agreed, relieved the conversation was over. He turned back to the sprout. "Hey, Mikey, where are you putting those eggs? Those are for eating, not wearing!"

Alfred smiled to himself as he wound his way down to the Batcave. Richard may protest now, but his true desires would out. Alfred had been wrong to push; this was not the time for family planning. Wait until the threat had been removed, and then he could apply pressure with more subtlety.

Alfred ducked into the Batcave through the main entrance. Bruce was sitting at the Batcomputer, but he was leaning backwards in his chair, his arms hung down by his sides . . . asleep at his computer. Alfred snorted. This wasn't the first time that had happened. Alfred would have to do a better job at insisting that Bruce take a longer sleep shift. He was running himself ragged, particularly as there was no respite from being Batman. Now that the world knew who he was, he no longer pretended to live a double life as Bruce Wayne.

Now that his secret was out, he had become Batman in all ways.

"Master Bruce," Alfred called out when he was a few feet away. "Master Bruce, it's time for breakfast."

Bruce woke with a jolt. "Alfred? What happened?"

Alfred suppressed a smile. "Nothing, Master Bruce. The eggs are ready if you are."

"I—yes. Eggs are fine. I'll be right—"

He was interrupted by an alert that flashed red across the computer screen. _TRANSMISSION_ it read, and when he saw it, Bruce sighed. "There is it. Patrick's finally reported in. Must have taken him longer than he thought."

Alfred said nothing. He shifted back, but did not leave the Batcave. He was curious, and fond of Mister O'Brian. He had a levity that Alfred, firmly ensconced in the Batfamily, did not get to enjoy very often.

Bruce opened the transmission. The visual was from Patrick's contacts, and the audio from tiny, specialty earpieces that had been clipped through Patrick's ears like earrings. Both contacts and ear pieces were small enough that they could slip through tiny cracks, and Patrick had demonstrated he could hold his ears and eyes in their solid form while the rest of him liquified. He'd only lose them if he had to enter a fully liquid state again.

The transmission began at 3:17 AM when Patrick entered the research facility. It was abandoned, and there were no guards outside. All Patrick had to do was shift his putty hand into the exact same calibration as Lex Luthor's—which was on file in the Batcave—lay down his hand on the scanner, and he was in.

" _Too easy,_ " Bruce muttered. "And it couldn't have taken him three hours for this . . . Was this delayed?"

Patrick silently slipped his way through the empty halls, ducking into rooms and rifling through filing cabinets. The power was cut. Lights were off, and none of the computers were online. Patrick hesitated over certain papers which seemed important, and quickly glanced over others. From the way Bruce was shaking his head, nothing was what they were looking for.

"No," he murmured. "This isn't right. Patrick, get out of there."

Patrick went through the double doors at the end of the hall. " _Bingo,"_ he whispered under his breath, although it was loud enough to be picked up by the ear pieces. Unlike the other rooms, this one was in total disarray. There had been no time to put everything back neatly, and papers, notebooks, tablets, and coffee cups were everywhere. Something had happened here, and the evidence of it was left behind.

Patrick flit from table to table, stretching his arms and neck to grab and glance over a truly staggering amount of information. All this could be slowed down and replayed later, but for now, Bruce let the transmission play at speed. Finally, Patrick found something that made him double take. It was a simple, dated list, written by some low-level peon, and read almost like a travel itinerary.

 _June 20th—Flight to Keystone. Meet with contact. Procure substance. Pass to Frank._

 _June 21st—Drive home. Take back roads, do not stop for anyone. Especially Morgan, the little bitch. Talk Boss out of giving me to the magic division? She can find her own way home._

 _June 22nd—Half-shift. Boss said to watch the news. 50 bucks says Batman's real identity is in the police force. How else could he know where all the crime in Gotham is? Graham bet Batman was a woman. What an idiot._

 _June 23rd—On loan to Atlantis team. Do not agree to test gear this time. Remember what happened to Kevin. His insides were_ everywhere. _Took hours to clean out the tank._

 _June 24th—Call Aunt Susan, tell her to get out of Metropolis. Do not call Sandra, the two-timing slut._

 _June 25th—List of next wave strike locations posted. Hoping for Europe, or Latin America. Fuck the States. I want to destroy some culture._

 _June 26th—Planned evacuation. All personnel to research lab. Boss said there might be a party. Better be, because Des Plaines is ass-end of nowhere. Hate Illinois. Hate the entire Midwest._

 _June 27th—Day off. Call Jeremiah. Make excuse for why he has to leave Chicago. Not as gullible—_

The list ended abruptly, torn at the bottom. "Shit," Bruce breathed. "Shit, shit—Patrick, get _out_ of there!"

Patrick couldn't hear him; this was an old transmission. Alfred narrowed his eyes at the list. Judging by the state of the room, something had gone wrong. There had been no party here; they had not even made it to Day 6 of the itinerary. Something had happened that forced this dimwitted lackey to leave this list behind, and—

There was a sudden jerk, and the paper rose up to meet them. Only when Patrick's body fell to the ground did it become obvious what had happened. Someone had come up from behind and clubbed him.

"Get the gun!" Someone cried.  
"Aw, hell no!" Patrick groaned. He shot out both his fists, forearms stretching over five feet in order to punch the nearest soldiers in the bracket. Both toppled over, but three more took their places. Patrick leapt into a motion, twisting and stretching and snapping back without stopping, a blur of arms and feet and a few well-placed headbutts. He was incredibly dangerous, particularly in close quarters, but every time he took a soldier down, more moved in, like heads of an unconquerable hydra.

Eventually he cleared a path towards the air vent, and Patrick took the opportunity. The camera shot forward as he elongated, stretching and thinning to evade capture. He had taken down at least eighteen men, but more more were coming—from off camera there were the sounds of men moving together, calling out orders.

Patrick was almost to the air vent. When he passed through the ear pieces, at least, would be lost. His fingers stretched out ahead of him, straining. His fingers were actually through the cracks when the camera shuddered violently, as if he had been electrocuted. When the jolting stopped, the camera angle sunk down to the floor. It reminded Alfred of a boat sinking very, very quickly.

"They liquified him," Bruce breathed. "Shit. They're gonna douse him with acetone again."

The earpieces sunk to the bottom of Patrick; muffled, but still working. One of the contacts slid away, staring up towards the ceiling. The other slid inwards, and by miraculous chance was in perfect position to see the men standing over Patrick's liquified body. One held what looked to be a small, modified handgun. It flared at the nozzle, and the aperture was latticed with tiny, silver metallic rods.

"Shall I hit him again?" The soldier who was holding the gun asked.

"No need," said a deep, Latin-accented voice. Alfred's eyes cut to Bruce. They both knew that voice. It was unmistakably Bane.

His soldiers parted as he made his way towards Patrick. Apart from his signature mask Bane was dressed atypically—not in his loose pants and tight muscle shirt, but in a fitted suit. All that was missing was a tie, and he'd look like he was attending a board meeting as a representative of the Mexican lucha libre division.

"So," he said in his rich accent. "This is what they sent? A puddle on the floor?"

"We've killed him once, sir," one of his soldiers reported. "He doesn't stay dead."

" _Lo entiendo,"_ Bane murmured. "Clever, spy, but not clever enough." He reached into the pocket of his trousers, and brought out a small, cylindrical vial. In it shone something blue and pulsing.

The soldiers nearest to him took a step back. "What is that?" One of them quietly asked his fellow.

Bane's eyes crinkled. Had his mouth been visible behind his luchador-styled mask, it would have undoubtedly been grinning. "A little help from our new friends," he chuckled, and he uncapped the vial. He tilted it over Patrick, and the last thing Alfred saw before the transmission cut out was the blue energy, pulsing and dangerous, coming ever closer.

* * *

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Clocktower, 6:29 AM**

 **Day 6**

 **...**

 **...**

Dinah Lance had no sooner fallen into bed after a long night of conferring with Carol about transportation, Helena about the safe house system, Barbara about security, and then Ollie about . . . _other_ things (she loved him, she really did, but sometimes that man just could _not shut up._ Just the other day he had been fighting with Barry over Hal, and it was times like those that made her wonder why on earth she was even _dating_ him _)_ when she was woken by a new and very specific ringtone. Unlike her other ring and text tones, used for both her personal life and her duties as Black Canary, this one denoted only one purpose: someone else had died.

Barbara had assigned what Dinah considered the 'death number' after the blitzkrieg. Everyone member of the New League would get an alert when someone else had passed, or was considered MIA. This was the first time it had been used. Dinah had set the death number ringtone as the first few lines of the second movement of Beethoven's last piano concerto, No. 5, ' _The Emperor._ '

Oliver had opted for Queen's _Another One Bites the Dust,_ which was just another reason why she refused to marry him so far.

She rolled over in bed to stop the alarm and read the message.

 _Deceased—PLASTIC MAN_

 _Channel 42 in 20 minutes._

Dinah dressed quickly. She had known the news was going to be bad, but not incomprehensible. The mutagenic change that had given him his power had made Patrick _immortal._ As in, he couldn't be killed. Not long term. Why, then, were they sending out an all-out alarm?

Dinah met up with Helena in the kitchen. Her dark-haired counterpart had snagged an uncooked bagel, and was chewing on it as they made their way to Oracle's computer room.

"You get the message?" Dinah asked, unsure why Helena was so business as usual.

"Yep," she said around a big bite of cranberry bagel.

"You're not worried?"

Helena swallowed and then said, "A little, but it's Plastic. He can't actually be dead. He'll be unrecognizable for a bit, then come back all sunshine and daisies."

That was what Dinah thought, but something made her nervous. "I don't know. A meeting so soon after? What if something happened?"

Helena spoke around the bagel in her mouth. "He probably managed to send back important info." She swallowed and continued, "You know, I wasn't sure Bruce was making the right move sending him in alone. I guess it worked out after all."

"Yes, but . . ." Dinah trailed off, not sure how to articulate her anxiety. Something just felt wrong. She shook her head. If there was something wrong, they'd know soon enough.

Helena punched in her code that allowed them access to Oracle's lair, as Dinah liked to consider it. Barbara was already within, of course. Dinah wasn't sure she ever slept, especially during times like these. She glanced over her shoulder at them, and waved them over. Her expression was grim.

"Uh oh," Helena muttered. "Looks like bad news."

Dinah and Helena flanked Barbara, who sat ramrod straight in her wheelchair. Her posture was a sure sign shit was going down.

"What's wrong?" Dinah asked, but Babs just shook her head.

"In the meeting," she said, and then fired up the communications control. At once, every member of the New League's face flashed onto their screen.

Oliver looked exhausted, and Dinah was comforted that he looked no better than she felt. Teach him to try and sext her awake at 3 AM. That he was successful meant nothing at all. They both needed more sleep, no matter how badly she had needed some release, as well. He smirked when he saw her looking at him, and gave her a look that managed to be lecherous, even through a computer screen.

"Does he ever turn off?" Helena leaned over and asking in a mutter.

"Every other Tuesday," she murmured back.

For the first time since the Iconoclasts had hit, every member of the New League—save Wonder Woman and Aquaman, down in Atlantis—were present. The Birds of Prey were all assembled, and the Batfamily as well, all of them hovering around the supercomputer down in the Batcave. Red Hood and the Outlaws shared a monitor, and the peeling paint behind them hinted they were not at the Manor. Ollie and Barry and Carol all had their own screens, as did Michael Carter and Ted Kord.

Even John Stewart and Shayera Hall were able to get away from their covers. John was stony faced, and Dinah didn't doubt it was wearing on him to pander to Luthor's ego, all the while openly denouncing his true allies. Shayera was even worse. She looked like she hadn't slept in a week, her hair was a matted mess, and her eyes were dull. She had been selected as a double agent primarily because of her history with the JLA, and how she had come to Earth in the first place. Dinah hoped it wouldn't be too much for her.

Bruce opened up the meeting. "Thank you all for attending. I know it took some doing for us all to be here in time, but this is important. As Oracle sent in the alert, Patrick has died. Whether or not this is a more serious setback than their first attempt remains to be seen. We have his final transmission—what he saw and heard right before his death. I'll replay the pertinent parts, and then open the floor to discussion."

He leaned forward and pressed several unmarked buttons on his console. The transmission began playing immediately, fast forwarded through the non-essential parts. He paused it for a minute when Patrick had looked down at the technician's list, but then let the rest of the video play in real time.

"Shit!" Shayera blurted out, as soon as the video ended. " I know what that was! That's a blue star energy pulse converter—the Gordanians use a simplified version of it to power their ships. Shit," she said again, her voice wobbling. "It eats through anything organic and converts it into harnessable energy. Do you know what the half-life on blue star is? 5,000 years!"

Dinah's eyes went wide with shock. 5,000 years? And that was just the half-life? After a time-travelling misadventure in Atlantis, Patrick had rebuilt himself on a molecular level for 3,000 years, and it had nearly shattered him, mentally and psychologically. And that was in the _past,_ wherein he'd finally reformed himself in their current time, with all his friends and family to keep him sane. What would he be like in 5,000 years? In closer to 10,000 years?

"That is why we are treating this as a semi-permanent death," Bruce said heavily. "Not only because we cannot retrieve his . . . remains until we have cleared the facility for traps, bombs and the like, but we also cannot begin to aid in his resurrection until we have eliminated the threat of this happening again. As difficult as this is, Patrick's death was not the primary reason we called you all together, however." He tapped on his console, and pulled up a copy of the agent's itinerary.

"This is the single most straightforward idea of their plans we are ever going to get," Bruce continued. "If it is accurate. There is always the possibility that this was planted. Either way, we have a problem."

"Oh _hell_ no," Ted exclaimed. "They aren't setting a single _foot_ in Chi-town!"

"Excuse me," Koriand'r muttered, looking distinctly green around the gills. She ran off screen, and both her boys watched her go.

"Chicago may be their next target," Barbara agreed. "And as we have no idea how they destroyed Metropolis in an hour, nor how wide the devastation may spread, we are left with only a few days to act. I propose that we begin an immediate evacuation of Chicago and the surrounding areas; as many as we can convince to leave their homes."

"Even with their traffic grid the streets are gonna be jammed," Carol murmured. "You're gonna need alternate forms of transportation. Ferris Aircraft can help with that."

"As will Queen Industries," Ollie added, unflinchingly serious. "We have and will provide for those who need temporary shelter, food, and a way outta there. Say the word and I'll get it for you, Bruce."

Dinah bit back a little smile. Ollie could grate on her nerves at times—could grate on _everyone's—_ but in times like these, she didn't know which aspect of him she loved more; the man, or the superhero.

"Hey hey don't leave me out, guys!" Ted said. "K.O.R.D. Inc is based in Chicago, and I've got plenty of contacts in the city that will convince people to get the hell out."

"And I'll help him," Michael said, flashing his 100 kilowatt smile.

"Keystone," Barry whispered, his eyes glazed. He hadn't heard a word of conversation, he was still caught up in the itinerary's first day. "He went to Keystone to procure a 'substance.' This fucker helped murder Wally!"

"Barry, deep breaths," Dinah counselled him gently, but firmly. "We need to keep our heads."

"Fuck that!" He yelled, losing his cool completely. "Wally's dead because of him! I'm done keeping my goddamned cool!"

There was a blur of red and yellow, and the next moment he was gone. Helena sighed and closed her eyes, and Jason and the Outlaws all exchanged glances.

"So, uh, anybody know how to catch an angry speedster?" Roy asked.

"We'll fill him in when he's done throwing his tantrum," Bruce said. He was in a piss-poor mood, and Dinah bet it was only partially because things were beginning to spiral out of control. She assumed it had more to do with Patrick's 'death'. For all their differences in personality, Patrick and Bruce had been friends. Losing him for the rest of his lifetime, and at his direction, would haunt him.

"Will the government help if we tell them?" Tim Drake asked, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand.

John Stewart let out a pained laugh. "Pah! Don't hold your breath. Luthor's convinced half of Washington that Shazam was acting under our orders when he went on his killing spree. Even if we handed them Billy's head on a platter, it's too late to get their support."

"Even if we could _prove_ the next target?" Tim argued, young and idealistic enough to think he could change stubborn minds.

John shook his head. "They won't believe anything we show them. Not until the Iconoclasts strike again."

"Is there _any_ information you can pass along?" Bruce asked, his voice strained.

Shayera winced. "Bane's got nothing in Chicago, and I haven't seen any assassins in my neck of the woods since the blitz. Unless John's got something on Luthor, our best bet may be hitting their site in Des Plaines."

"Luthor has not focused on the Midwest," John admitted. "That may mean he's trying to keep out of blast radius, or he's already popular enough in that region to spend more time in others. I don't know, Bruce. He's been trying to shift my responsibilities, lately. I believe he's taken an interest in me in a new way."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, "If he touches you, I will end him," Shayera promised, her voice dark and dangerous.

John realized what he'd insinuated. "No, not that! Lord, your minds are filthy. He's trying to keep me firmly out of the mud. He has me playing in the politician's sphere rather than assisting with the seedier aspect of his 'empire.'"

"So, nothing useful?" Jason Todd drawled.

John glared at him. "Bit like yourself."

"Ok," Dinah cut in. "Great. So we're all agreed—we have to focus on evacuating Chicago. There's something else we need to focus on: that site in Des Plaines. Any leads?"

Oracle glanced back at her and nodded. "We've got a market research facility that was bought out last year by one of Luthor's puppet companies. It was a fairly high-tech building, with a testing lab and kitchens built in, along with the more basic mic'd rooms and two-way mirrors. God knows what he wanted it for, but we think that's where the agent was referring to in his note."

"So who's going in?" Dick asked.

"I am," Dinah said at exactly the same time as Helena. They glanced at each other before she amended it to, "We are."

"Birds of Prey call this one, guys," Helena added. "We'll show you gents how the ladies get it done."  
"Woah, woah, woah," Ollie said. "Babe. Are you thinking this through? Patrick just died. _Patrick._ Need I remind you that _you_ are not immortal?"

"Helena and I are of less use in the evacuation effort," she pointed out. "Not in the BSU club, remember? We are, however, dangerous as fuck."

"I am not arguing that," Ollie said in a tone of voice that suggested he was, in fact, arguing just that. "But _Patrick is dead._ You are not, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Dinah narrowed her eyes at the monitor, and debated whether it was worth it to use her canary cry to incapacitate all the listeners just to piss off her overprotective boyfriend.

"Thanks to Patrick's sacrifice, we have a way better idea of what we're up against," Helena said before Dinah could go through with it. "We work well as a team, and if things go badly, we can bail."

"Like Patrick could bail?" Dick asked, sarcastically. He clearly didn't like the two of them going in alone either, yet while Batman was brooding in front of him, he couldn't offer to help. For now, he had slid back under Bruce's wing, and was part of the Batman bloc, rather than acting independently as Nightwing.

"We could go with," Jason offered. "Roy and I. We're not much help with evac either."

"Ok, we could do that," Roy said, sounding put out. "Thanks for offering me up, Fearless Leader."

"No," Bruce said. He was wearing his cowl, but there was still something deeply unhappy about his features. "I will go with them."

Dick and Tim whipped their heads around in perfect sync, and in identical expression of shock.

"Say whaaat?" Ollie prompted.

Bruce glowered at him. "I sent Patrick to his death. I will not let it happen again. Dinah, Helena, and I will go to Des Plaines."

"Bruce," Dick said quietly. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes," he said. "While I'm gone, you will be Batman. Keep the patrol rotas until I get back. Red Hood, if you and the Outlaws would continue helping patrol Gotham, that would be . . . appreciated."

Dinah's eyebrows went up. Wow, could Bruce sound any more like he was pulling his own teeth out of his mouth? From the look on Jason's face, he agreed.

"Not doing it for you, old man," he said, his eyes sliding to the right so that it looked like he was staring at Tim or Richard.

"But you'll do it," Bruce said, and it was not a question.

Jason's gaze stayed just off center. "Yeah."

"Waita waita wait," Roy said, waving his hands in front of his face. "We're doing some A+ planning here, but what about _Shazam?_ Isn't he tearing through the US? He'd destroyed eight cities, last I checked."

Barbara shook her head. "He fell off the grid about three hours ago. No sign of him, but the death toll has stopped entirely." She adjusted her glasses. "He may be unconscious, or found a way to break free of the compulsion . . . He may also be dead. I simply don't have a trace of him."

"Did he get off-world?" John asked.

"I don't see how," Bruce replied. "Not with the magical pulse barring or even controlling his powers."

"Jason and I can find him," Tim offered. He stood up a little straighter when all the eyes turned to him. Many were incredulous, including Jason's. "We've worked together in the past, and between us, we've got contacts on all ends of the spectrum. One way or another, we'll get a lead on him." He hesitated. "But I don't think he and I should fight him."

"No," Bruce agreed. "That I think should be up to Arrow and Flash. Working together, they have a chance."

"Oh, thanks," Ollie snarked. "A chance. What, are you crazy? Shazam is one of the biggest bruisers in the League. In the universe! We're boned!"

"What about Koriand'r?" Helena asked. "She's incredibly powerful."

"No," Jason and Roy said at exactly the same time, with exactly the same forbidding tone of voice.

"Wow, sexist much?" Dinah remarked.

Jason frowned at everyone, looking angry. "What is wrong with you?" He asked. "If you were pregnant, would you be throwing yourself into battle with _Shazam?"_

 _I really should be counting these moments of stunned silence,_ Dinah thought in the stunned silence that followed. _This makes three._

"Kori's pregnant?" Dick asked, with an odd tone coloring his voice.

Jason whipped around to glare at Roy. "I thought you were going to tell everyone!"

Roy winced. "I just . . . the right time never came up!"

Ollie had other concerns. "Jesus. Is it Roy's?" He asked, amazed.

Dick's eyes narrowed, and Dinah foresaw an awkward day at Wayne Manor. If Dick wasn't over his feelings for his ex-fiancee, things were about to get hella awkward, hella fast.

"Yes, Kori's pregnant, and yes, it is Roy's," Jason explained through gritted teeth. "The _point_ is that she has elected to stay out of pitched battle. Strictly transport duty, guys."

"Congratulations," the smallest and angriest Wayne said, in a tone that was distinctly un-congratulatory.

"Well, fuck!" Ollie exclaimed. "Do you honestly think Barry and I can take Shazam down on our own? Because I don't!"

"There is a backup plan for if we are truly outmatched," Bruce said heavily. "Oracle has all the necessary information. If Shazam lies low long enough, we may be able to regroup before engaging him. I'd feel a lot better if all of us were going after him."

"Is it normal to be vomiting this much during human pregnancy?" Koriand'r asked, walking back onto camera as she did. She sounded worried but her color was a little better, and Dinah realized she had just raced off to the bathroom to yark.

"Yep. It's called morning sickness," Helena offered. "Can stick around for the whole trimester."

Dinah said nothing. Why should she? She couldn't have children, no matter how badly she and Ollie wanted one. That Roy was able to have one so easily stung a little, and for once, she understood why Ollie was being a bit petulant. _Well, that and facing Shazam,_ she thought. _That might make me a bit moody too._

Starfire frowned. "Human pregnancies seem far more uncomfortable than Tamaranean pregnancies."

"And more dangerous," Roy muttered. "Did you know Tamaraneans don't miscarry? _Ever?_ Kori thought we were shitting her when we explained it to her. _Now_ do you see why we're worried about you fighting?" He said to her. "The kid's half-human. The pregnancy's gonna be different than what you're expecting."

"Not too different, I hope," she murmured, but took her place next to him, allowing the conversation to move forward.

Barbara took control of the conversation once more. "It's decided, then. Batman, Canary, and Huntress will infiltrate the Des Plaines site, and Carol, Beetle, Booster, and Arrow will focus on evac, until Shazam is found, and then Arrow and Flash will focus on containing him. Red Robin and and Red Hood, your first priority is finding Shazam. Starfire and Arsenal, do what you can do, help out with Nightwing and Robin in Gotham. John and Hawkgirl, keep your covers. I'll continue overseeing everyone, but my efforts will be towards the evacuation. If we don't learn anything from the Des Plaines site, or find a way to stop the attack on Chicago, I will hack _everything_ and make the announcement public. The government will not stand in our way of saving countless civilian lives. Any questions?"

Ollie raised his hand. "May I register a complaint?" His eyes cut to her section of the monitor, and she knew he was going to argue her role in this.

"Not if you want to have sex ever again," Dinah shut him down.

His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, then he slowly lowered his hand.

"Whoever sees him next, fill Flash in, please." Barbara concluded. "This is going to be a difficult couple of days. Stay alert, and if anything happens— _anything at all—_ do not try to handle it on your own. Our strength is in our unity. Alone, we will fall."

…

…

…

…

…

 **DUN DUN DUNNNNNN.**

 **I have seen Tamaraneans spelled about 4 different ways, and it has been so long since I've read it in an actual comic I have no idea, now. I apologize for any/all spelling mistakes, both specific to the comics and in the general English language.**

 **Also, I have no real idea how Roy and Kori would take to being parents (together). I kind of like the idea of Roy being v. excited about this, and extremely silly as well. (And if not . . . oh well, Elseworld.)**

 **I worked a really, really terrible job in Des Plaines, IL. I may hate the city by association but am quite fond of Illinois on the whole. My apologies to anyone who is from (or has ever been to) Des Plaines, disregarding the amount of time you spend in the O'Hare airport.**


	5. Ch 4 - A Good Soldier

**As always, this is unbeta'd. I do my own edits, but am sure to miss things, so please let me know if anything glaring pops out.**

 **If the title of this chapter isn't making you at least a little nervous, it should be. The end of the chapter may require hankies. The crying (and hateful comments) will probably start . . . now.**

 **Trigger alert: language, main character death, emotional destruction, torture (although it is non-explicit/audio only).**

* * *

 **Chapter 4:** **A Good Soldier**

* * *

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Michigan's Upper Peninsula, 3:17 AM**

 **Day 6**

 _The water around him is dark, and he has been treading it long. Days (or weeks, or months, or years) ago, he learned how to breathe in the water, else he would have been lost. Time and time again he has found his way upwards, only to be repelled by the surface. It is smooth and glassy and thicker than a thousand diamond bars. He cannot break through them, and so he sinks down below, to the still, dark waters, until he summons himself for another attempt._

I will not die yet, _he tells himself occasionally, when he is lucid enough to form coherent thought._ I am not done.

 _But his body is heavy, and the waters are deep. Only his determination keeps him floating, fighting, forcing his way to the surface. And with every passing moment, that which bars the surface grows ever thicker._

 _It frustrates him, and after what feels like a lifetime, he finds himself doing something new. "I will not die yet. I am not done," he says, aloud for the first time since he was drowned. Bubbles escape his lips, trailing upwards. They ricochet against the glassy surface, and drift their way back down. They band together as they sink, and by the time the now humongous bubble reaches him, there is something inside._

 _It is an incongruous image. An old, wizened man; a bearded man, sits within on a throne carved from stone. The old man's hair is matted and his eyes are wild, and something inside of the drowned man clenches at the sight. The old man is powerful. The old man is dangerous._

 _The old man is familiar._

" _Why do you linger here?" The old man asks him, from inside his bubble._

 _The drowned man looks at him curiously. He has known only darkness and water and failure for what feels like lifetimes. He had forgotten about people. He had forgotten what they sound like._

" _I cannot get out," he admits, when he remembers the words to speak._

 _"Why not?" The old man asks._

 _The drowned one looks up. "The surface is blocked. I am not strong enough to break free, so I cannot get out."_

" _You are only as strong as you know yourself to be," the old man says, and the drowned one has a flash of memory. Of course he is wise. The old man's power is specific—he is magic. A wizard._

" _Can you help me?" He asks._

" _Why should I?" The wizard muses._

 _The drowned man tries to think of a reason why. He does not know who he is, nor why he is here, but he does still have that one piece to himself; the flotsam of who he once was to cling to in this endless ocean of unknowing. "Because I will not die yet. I am not done."_

" _Then help yourself," the wizard counsels. "If you know yourself, you know your true strength and no prison bars will hold you."_

 _A flare of hope lights the drowned man's belly. "How do I do that?"_

" _You must reclaim yourself."_

" _But I don't remember myself," the drowned man says sadly. "It was taken from me."_

" _Almost," the wizard agrees. "But not entirely. I will help you, but first you must do something for the both of us. I have forgotten my name, as you have yours. If you can remember mine, you shall remember yours."_

" _Your name?" The drowned one asks. "But I don't know you."_

 _From far off, echoing in the lost hallways of his memory, he hears a quiet voice whisper, '_ The wisdom of Solomon; the strength of Hercules . . .'

" _Don't you?" The wizard looks at him, and the drowned one has another flash of recognition. He_ does _know the wizard._

'The stamina of Atlas; the power of Zeus . . .'

' _What is my name?" The wizard prompts, his voice growing louder. So too do the whispers in his mind, coming together in a mantra he knows in his bones._

'The courage of Achilles; the speed of Mercury . . .'

 _It comes to him all at once. "Shazam," the drowned man whispers, and there is a light above him, cutting through the inky waters._

 _The wizard nods, and something in his mien is approving. "And what is the name that we share?"_

" _Shazam," the drowned one says again, more confidently this time. There is an edge to his voice, a power in his conviction. The light from above flares ever brighter, and the water grows warmer._

" _And what is the name you alone bear? What is the name which holds your true power?"_

 _That takes longer. There is another name, and another sense of himself hidden deep within these lifeless waters. It is the name of a little boy in the orphanage; an angry, powerless boy who rails against the idea of a happy, normal life. It is the name of a boy with five foster siblings, all of whom he loves as much as any full-blooded sibling. It is the name of a young man who grows into himself, hates bullies and those who do evil, and always, no matter how dark things become, tries to do the right thing._

 _It is a name of no magic. A human name. But it is_ his _name. And he wants it back._

" _Billy," he remembers, and the light from above is blinding now. "Billy Batson."_

 _The water roils and froths around him, and echoes with the creaking and breaking of the diamond bars that keep him pinned. He is so close to freedom, he can almost feel the sun on his face, and the air in his lungs. He is not quite free, however. There is one last bond in place, and the wizard Shazam asks him one final question._

" _And what is your true strength, Billy Batson? What can they not take from you, no matter how hard they try?"_

" _My humanity," Billy says, and he knows this is true. Knows it deep down in his bones, where he had not forgotten his name or his resolve, no matter the strength of his enemies' magic. "I am human. I am_ Billy. _Not whatever they would make me!"_

 _The wizard Shazam smiles, and in an instant the ocean is drained away. The bars are undone, and there is a great and terrible light that fills Billy entirely, leaving no part of him in the dark. The light is more terrifying than the magic, but its purpose is not to control him. It is a cleansing light, a purifying light, and in it, nothing can remained unchanged._

 _Billy screams, and in it is his resolve, writ large: "I WILL NOT DIE! I AM NOT DONE!"_

 _The light shone brighter for one, unbearable moment—_

Billy Batson opened his eyes to the waking world.

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Chicago, IL, 11:47 AM**

 **Day 6**

Barry began to kick himself for running out of the League meeting almost immediately. He was a grown man, with almost a decade of acting as the Flash. This wasn't the time or the place to revert to his emotional, teenage years. He needed to gain control over his emotions, and be someone everyone could rely on.

It was easier said than done, of course. Memories of Wally had overwhelmed him. Everyone liked Wally: he was kind, considerate, funny, a great team player who would step up to lead when needed . . . and that was just his superhero persona. Out of uniform he had looked up to Barry as a full-fledged family member, even though Barry hadn't _exactly_ been married to his Aunt Iris. Not yet, anyway. Barry had made little secret that he considered Wally to be his nephew, by choice, if not by birth.

And now he was dead. Dead, dead, _dead,_ just like Patrick, Victor, and half the earthbound representatives of the Green Lantern Corps.

Dead, just like Iris.

What eventually snapped him out of his depression was remembering his promise to Hal to look after Ollie. He called Arrow and got an earful, but was also brought up to date with the current situation. That call gave him another set of worries that were immediate and vibrant enough to take his mind temporarily off of Wally. Subduing Shazam was practically impossible at the best of times, but that would have to wait for Red Hood and Red Robin to _find_ him. Dinah's safety on the mission was another worry he could not assuage. If anything happened to her, both Ollie and Hal would be wrecked, and with the addition of Bruce and Helena, the New League would be crippled.

Chicago was the immediate priority, however, and something he could assist with. He sent out texts to Carol, Ted, and Ollie, asking what he could do to help them. _Transport,_ was the immediate reply from all. Ollie's had the helpful addition of _Use that super speed and get Carol what she needs. She's got less capital to throw around than Ted and I do, so she's gonna need you._

So Barry raced to Chicago, startling Carol as she coordinated the planes, boats, busses, and trains that would, barring any future developments from the Des Plaines team, start transporting everyone they could out of the city.

"Direct me," he had told her, and she did. For the next three hours, he had pushed his speed and strength to the utmost, delivering what needed to be delivered, shoring up what needed to be shored, and smoothing the way for all the little tasks that kept such an immense enterprise running. Eventually he received a message from Oracle that he should check in with Tim in Gotham. He may have a lead on Billy's location, down in Nevada. Flash agreed, and then raced across Chicago one more time to deliver his last report to Carol.

"Thank you," she said, stiltedly, as he handed her the report from her naval division, organizing ships to ferry people across Lake Michigan. "Your work is much appreciated."

She began walking away, flipping through the pages on her clipboard. Stung, Barry opened his mouth to ask her to act her age, please, but then paused. He wasn't an idiot. He could read body language as well as anyone, and, unlike the majority of his sex, openly admitted to crying during Jack's death scene during _Titanic._ Bottom line was, he was better emotionally equipped to deal with upset women than most men.

"Carol, what's wrong?" He asked, trying to sound as gentle and compassionate as he could. He knew from Hal that she was not a woman to be gentled, but he wasn't going to be crass about this. "I know we're behind schedule, but just tell me if there's something else I can do."

She hesitated, looking back at him over her shoulder. She was a beautiful woman, in well-tailored clothes; the polar opposite of handsome yet scruffy Hal and his Walmart wear. They were an odd couple when Barry thought about it, but opposites attracted. Looking at her now, Barry felt an odd shiver of inadequacy. He wasn't attracted to her, nor were they in competition for anything at all, but something in her expression made him feel like he was measured up and found lacking.

"Not right now," she said. "Thank you for all your help, but if Oracle says she needs you, she needs you. You should get going."

Enough of being subtle. Barry didn't have time to waste, even with how fast he moved. "Am I missing something? There is no problem in relying on me. With how important you are to Hal, and how important he is to me, we're kind of like family. I mean, aren't we at least friends?"

She looked directly at him. "No."

His mouth dropped. He couldn't help the reaction, although he regretted his loss of face immediately. "I—Is there a reason why?" This frigid reception was new and completely unexpected, particularly as they'd marathoned three Nicholas Sparks movies in a row, just before Valentines Day. He hadn't seen her much since then, but wouldn't Hal have told him if something had happened?

Carol sighed. She glanced around the warehouse, as if salvation might come from one of the workers. They were alone, however, and eventually she admitted, "Barry, I realize this isn't very helpful, but I simply don't like you."

This was somehow even more surprising. He stopped _moving_ for a moment, that was how surprised he was. Movie marathon(s) aside, his next thought was _does Hal know? Is that why we never double dated? How did I miss all this?_

"I'm sorry if I've done something—"

Carol cut him off with a frustrated gesture. Now she at least looked a little apologetic, if annoyed. "It's not you, personally. Nothing you've done. I just . . . you rub me the wrong way."

 _Bullshit,_ Barry thought. _The only person I rub the wrong way is Ollie, because he has a big man crush on Hal. What's Carol's problem?_ "Maybe it would be better to hash this out," he suggested, with a touch of steel in his voice. "Smooth down the edges. 'Cuz I'm not going anywhere, and I want to know if that's gonna be a problem for you _before_ you marry Hal."

There was a quick intake of breath when he mentioned Hal. Barry had a bad feeling about this. Had he stumbled onto something painful? Was this going to culminate in a conversation that Hal would kill him for, later? She was still glaring at him, icy and untouchable in her perfect femininity, and Barry honestly had no idea what the hell she was so angry about, and he was not backing down until he did.

"Perhaps you're right," she allowed, and her capitulation only served to make Barry more nervous. "But can you afford to keep Oracle waiting?"

"I'll make up time on the way," he assured her. Tim could wait. Shazam hadn't killed anyone for upwards of eight hours, and he would keep.

Carol took a moment to formulate her thoughts. She exhaled slowly and met his gaze before admitting, "Fine. If you really want to know, I proposed to Hal, a few months before he left. On Valentine's Day, actually. When we went out to dinner."

A cold pit formed in Barry's belly. He was having a change of heart. Now that she'd begun, he didn't want her to finish. Hal hadn't told him any of this. There had to be a reason for that, and that reason was that Hal didn't want him to know.

He must have broadcasted his surprised because it made Carol laugh, mirthlessly. "Wow, that's a surprise. I thought he would have told you everything."

Barry stiffened. Hal hadn't. Not a blessed word. "No, he wouldn't have told me that. Not after Iris."

Carol hesitated, and then bowed her head. "I . . . I suppose that makes sense." She didn't apologize for what she'd said, or even for Iris's passing, which Barry appreciated. Too many people tried, and it just made him upset. There was no one to blame but cancer; nothing to blame but the cells of her own body failing her.

Carol cleared her throat before continuing in a clipped, clear tone, like she was reciting bullet points at a board meeting. "He turned me down, obviously. Not entirely, just that he wanted to wait. I was disappointed, but I understood. His lifestyle . . . well, you know how hard it is. I was going to be understanding."

"What changed?" Barry asked softly.

She gave him a calculating look. "The night before he left back in April . . . I was a little drunk. I wasn't handling the imminent separation very well. I asked again, and when he reiterated his desire to wait, I demanded a different answer."

It was an effort to behave normally. Even his breath was quicker now. _I'm nervous,_ Barry realized. _And I have no idea why. What the hell, me?_ "And?"

She smiled, the curve of her lips was sharp and unhappy. "He said that he couldn't leave you alone like that. That marrying so soon after you'd lost Iris would be the worst thing he could do as a friend." She frowned, looking faintly confused. "He said he'd be breaking his promise."

 _Oh, Hal._ Barry thought. _Hal, no_. It was difficult to string together anything more coherent than that. It had only been a few days ago that he and Ollie had been playfully competing over who Hal liked best. This blew it all out of the water. Hal had turned Carol down for _him._ Just so Barry wouldn't feel alone.

Barry blamed the profundity of his silly victory over Ollie for the flash of contentment that warmed him.

"What promise?" Barry asked. It was better than asking _what in God's name is wrong with Hal,_ or, _your boyfriend picked me over you? Twice?_ Ollie would have been making quips about how he was pretty sure that made Barry Hal's new girlfriend, or something like that. Bad enough that Barry was kind of thinking that in the first place.

Carol shook her head. "I thought that you might know. It was clearly important to him, but he refused to get into it."

"I have no idea. He hasn't made any promises to me," Barry said frankly. "I'm amazed he told you any of that. It's never come up between us, even when Iris was . . . passing."

Carol sighed, and something in her posture unclenched. "He thought I'd be too drunk to remember. When he gets back, he'll pretend like he never said anything."

"Shit," Barry said eloquently. And then, "Well, I guess I see why you don't like me much. Carol, if it means anything, I'm sorry Hal is such an idiot. I'll talk to him when he gets home. I refuse to stand in the way of your happiness." His breath shuddered when he admitted, "I know what it's like to lose that. You and Hal deserve better than this . . . indecision."

Carol's smile was small, but her manner was slightly thawed. "I don't think it's that simple, Barry, but thank you. I guess I am glad we had this talk."

"I'll make it simple for him," he assured her, before he turned and sped off towards Gotham. "Things will get better. The last thing we need are misunderstandings when we're at war."

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 2:14 PM**

 **Day 6**

Barbara leaned down against her computer console, her mind drifting. This was the third day in a row she'd stayed awake for 20+ hours, and at 33 years old, the pace was wearing on her. Particularly as it was all mental stimulation. She couldn't go out and physically work off her tension, or give her mind a break the way everyone else could. She was bound to the wheelchair, and in her darkest times, she felt like she was trapped within the confines of her mind.

She had been monitoring Bruce, Dinah, and Helena for the last 4 hours, and so far the mission had (thankfully) been predictable and boring. They had reached Des Plaines with no difficulty, and had entered the research facility posing as respondents for a project. Part one of the project had wrapped up a little while ago, and from Bruce's terse mutters, they weren't ready to come home yet. They had not yet had the opportunity to explore the whole facility without blowing their cover, but from his equipment's readings, it looked as if there was a huge cavernous space below their feet.

Although their slow pace was worrisome, Barbara knew they'd get there eventually. They'd find a way to access that space discreetly, and whatever they found there she would know. They had all been fitted to the nines with every listening device Lucius Fox had ever created, and had they not all been connected to her supercomputer, she would have had a hellish time trying to separate the noise from the three listening devices all were wearing. Certain members of the focus group really needed to learn about volume control. Wires were woven into their clothing, and all three supers wore the visual recording contact lenses. Helena had another pair fitted onto her sunglasses.

Dinah had an additional device, a tiny, plastic, flesh-colored, experimental device in the piercing in the forward helix of her left ear. That was the only one that wasn't currently transmitting any information, but it wasn't meant to. It was their back-up, and it could not transmit any information until the end of the mission, when physically activating the device would send all auditory information to Barbara's supercomputer.

Barbara couldn't focus her utmost attention on any one thing, not with this many recording devices in play. So she rigged a program that would alert her if there was any dramatic change in volume or speed at which they were moving, and until then, she would focus on preparing to evacuate Chicago.

And maybe take a five minute nap—

"Oracle!" Came an unfamiliar, British-accented voice that jostled her from an alpha-wave nap.

Barbara flailed, half convinced she was under attack. In doing so she knocked over her mug of coffee, long forgotten and ice cold. Thankfully it only splashed all over the floor, and not her computer.

"What?" She cried out. "What's going on?" She glanced up at the monitor, and had her answer. There was John Constantine, and he'd managed to do what no computer hacker could.

"How did you get access to my computer?" She asked, equal parts enraged and worried.

He waved his hand in front of his face. "Magic, darling, but I'm not here to muck about. Whatever your magic man did, make him do it again," he commanded.

Maybe she _was_ dreaming. Surely that would make more sense than a British mage commandeering her supercomputer, and then making nonsensical demands. "Our who-now did what?"

John growled, frustrated. "Your wizard! Sha-zam! Billy bloody Batson, keep up, Barbara Gordon! Whatever he did, make him do it again, because if he can, I might not have to get serious. You do _not_ want me getting serious."

Barbara sat forward in her chair. She was beginning to catch up. "We can't find him, Constantine. Nor do we know what he did. Do you have any information that will help us?"

His eyebrows rose to his hairline. "You _misplaced_ a magical superhero with enough power to bring this planet to its knees? How exactly did that go about?"

Barbara narrowed her eyes at him. "Does that mean no?"

John sighed roughly. He glanced back over his shoulder as if checking to see if anyone was listening in. When he turned back he began, "How to explain it so you pinheads can understand . . .? The Iconoclasts' spell is laid down like a big, fuck-off, fancy house. Main floor, first, second, third . . . Except it's an antique house, and there's no adding on to—or fixing—what was originally built. It's powerful, but rigid—there's no changing it, no adjusting it, so in that sense, it's incredibly fragile.

"Billy just tore off the entire top floor. If he can destroy another, my associate and I can possibly tear the rest down without opening up the gates to Hell, and getting demons involved in the fate of our planet. Otherwise, that's where it looks like it's going, 'not gonna lie.' That's how you Americans say it, right?"

"Thank you, John," Barbara said acerbically. "That's truly helpful. As soon as we find Billy, we can send him your way."

"Oh Heavens no," John said. "He hates me, and for good reason. You need to keep him. If it's as I suspect, he's found a way to tear his magical signature out of the foundations of the spell. He may be the only other mage on Earth whose powers are completely unrestricted."

" _May_ be?"

Constantine winced. "Well, that or he's dead. I'd prefer he wasn't, honestly, but either way, he did manage to weaken their spell considerably. I'll take what I can get."

Barbara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. John Constantine was difficult for her to deal with at the best of times, and this was so far removed as to make him unbearable. "John, can you elaborate on the _demons?_ "

There was no response. She opened her eyes and the monitor was blank. He'd gone as quickly as he'd come. Barbara leaned her head back, and let loose a frustrated yell.

After 10 minutes of yelling, swearing, and throwing an all around hissy fit, she felt marginally better. That being the case, she hailed her premier minion.

"Tim, did you find Shazam?"

Red Robin's reply was nearly instantaneous. "No, false alarm. Why, did something happen?"

Barbara paused. Now that's she'd gotten a mental second wind, she realized that something was odd. She had expected Tim to get results, false or positive, but not that quickly. Were he and Jason such a good team?

Belatedly, she realized the truth. "Is Kon helping you look for Shazam?"

Tim's hesitation was telling. "Maybe."

Barbara sighed. "In that case, pull Jason off and put him on Gotham patrol. Tell Kon to keep looking. We need to find Shazam, but do not engage. He may need medical attention, and we must give it."

"What? Why?"

"Because John Constantine just told me that he's our best chance of wrecking the Ikon's spell. We _need_ him."

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Highway 95, 50 miles west of Metropolis, 6:47 PM**

 **Day 6**

The hitchhiker had been making her way to Gotham ever since Metropolis fell. All she had with her was the backpack she'd had when she left the city only hours before it fell; filled with clothes and a little food, her wallet, and one or two items that in her current situation she probably wouldn't live long without. She's already had to use the long-range pepper spray on a few vagrants who had tried to rob her. She used a few well-placed aikido movements on the truck driver who drove her 10 miles and then tried to stick her hand down his pants.

 _At this rate it's going to take me a month to reach Gotham,_ she thought, wishing she trusted the cell phone lines enough to make a call. She knew better, however. There was only one person left she knew to trust, no matter what the news anchors were saying. She knew when _they_ were lying, and when the truth was being twisted for someone else's ends.

She was a journalist, after all.

Ironically enough, her profession was how she had survived the destruction of her city. She'd been out of Metropolis when disaster struck, interviewing a veteran of the Korean War for an internal piece. It had been a favor for a colleague, and it resulted in her being alive while he was not.

It was the one point of luck she'd had over the last week, besides swapping her recording equipment for a gun. Tonight she had another stroke of luck, however. The truck driver that pulled over for her was not what she expected. Loretta Davies was female, for one thing; short and squat and full of salt-of-the-earth humor.

The very first thing she did was offer up gruff but sincere advice. "A woman shouldn't be hitchhiking, right now. Lotta' men out here take what they can get, and then some. And ever since Metropolis was destroyed, just about all of 'em have been carrying guns."

"What are they afraid of?" Asked the hitchhiker, thinking idly of the sig sauer she carried in a concealed holster at her hip. It was her last line of defense, and she was not looking forward to the day when she had to use it.

Loretta laughed. "Hell if I know! Supers, or the Icons, or whatever they're called. I think they just like having the opportunity to carry a big stick around, you know what I mean?" She leaned over without taking her eyes off the road. "And you can tell the ones that are compensating for something by the size of their gun. Tracy—she's another lady driver—she and I had a good laugh over Dave's ridiculously long rifle."

The hitchhiker gave a calculated laugh, friendly and open enough to get people comfortable and talking. "You don't worry about the Iconoclasts, then?"

Loretta shrugged. "The good supers will stop 'em. The TV says the Icons are really just bad supers parading around as something different, but I dunno about that. My cousin used to live in Metropolis, God rest his soul, and said that Superman was something special. But he's not here now." She looked over at her passenger. "Do ya think we're gonna need him? Superman, I mean."

Lois Lane looked over at the truck driver from beneath her baseball cap. "I think we will," she said seriously. "Let's just hope he comes home soon."

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 9:45 PM**

 **Day 6**

Six hours after he'd been pulled off Shazam duty, Jason found himself out on patrol with his least favorite Robin. It had been a slow evening so far, leaving Damian with plenty of opportunity to whine like a little girl, and Jason to suffer mightily.

"I just don't see why _you_ get to wear the Batman suit," the little shit complained after they zip-tied a couple of low level goons to a lamp post. This, after a solid hour of _nothing._ After days of deluge this drought of evildoers was unnatural. The sensation of _something is wrong_ was so strong Jason could hardly sit still. It took all his patience, plus the image of Tim _and_ Dick's disappointed expressions to keep from murdering the Demon Child, simply to make something happen.

"I'm bigger," was his succinct reply. "Also, Dickebird likes me the best."

Damian harrumphed, and his expression was the picture of petulance. Jason tried to cut him some slack. He was moody because Daddy Bats wasn't home yet, even though Babs had said there was nothing to be worried about. She'd been listening in on the trio's chatter all day, and glancing through their video feeds. They'd packed it in an hour ago, having found nothing noteworthy, although they were going to investigate one abandoned building along the way. They hadn't even faced much in the way of baddies to beat down—just a couple of gung-ho security guards a couple hours back, easily zip-tied and stowed in one of the storage rooms.

Des Plaines had been a bust, and an hour ago, Oracle had given Operation Chicago Evacuation the green light. Jason had missed Bab's public announcement that was broadcast across every channel in the US, not to mention all over the internet, but he could imagine Bruce's mood when he returned. It was harder to imagine the devastation the Iconoclasts would wreak upon Chicago in just a few days.

"Grayson does not like you best," Damian finally scoffed. "You're his _least_ favorite."

Jason just shrugged, letting the subject drop. Maybe Damian would get the hint and let them patrol in peace.

Alas, it was not to be. "Where were you last night?" Robin asked, a few minutes later.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "What, were you looking for me?"

Damian scowled at him. "Arsenal was. He attempted to enlist my aid."

Jason whistled. Sometimes he wasn't sure if Roy had a death wish or what. "Maybe I was out killing people," he baited the angry batling. "You jealous?"

The teenager sniffed. "Hardly. I'm a changed man. Unlike you."

Jason snorted quietly, under his breath, but Damian still caught it.

"I thought the assassination missions were shelved," the little shit said with a sly side glance.

 _Of all the times for him to be as nosy as his dad,_ Jason thought, fighting down an internal wince. Thank god he had Batman's cowl on. He had to play it cool, otherwise Damian would be like a dog with a bone, and there were certain things he never, ever wanted to explain to the youngest Robin.

"I did too," he said, feigning an exhaustion he didn't really feel. "Guess we were both wrong."

Damian frowned at him. "I couldn't find Grayson either," he admitted. "At least I know he wasn't with you."

Jason didn't say anything for a moment. Why the hell was Damian looking for both of them last night? What was going on here? "He was probably with Michael Wilson," he offered. "The little guy's pretty fond of him, and misses his parents. Might have had a sleepover with the kiddo."

"I don't understand why Grayson humors the infant," Damian said, completely sidetracked. "He's hardly useful."

"Kid can direct the rain. That's kinda cool."

"Yes, but not useful. I was better off as a three-year-old."

Jason smirked. "Don't like Mike much, huh? There anything you do like?"

"He's not one of us," Damian said, aggrieved. He didn't seem to realize that he had included his current patrol partner in that statement. Jason carefully kept his expression neutral. It was . . . a little uncomfortable to realize that Damian considered him family, of a sorts. Uncomfortable, but also not a bad thing.

 _Oh, damn it,_ he thought. _Dick was right._ _I'm just as emotionally repressed as Bruce is._

"Not all of us were born to the bat," Jason said, trying to steer this back onto Michael Wilson, rather than himself. He gave Damian a cocky grin. "Most of us were made. And we've turned out ok."

"You did not," Damian argued. "You failed. You _died._ "

A year ago, this would have been crippling. A week ago it would have hurt him. Now, with so much more than only his death on the table, Jason only grinned, his teeth flashing white and sharp in the Gotham murk. "You did too."

This brought Damian up. He was only 15, the same age Jason had been when he died. He had been even younger when his cloned brother had killed him, hadn't he? Shit. Now Jason felt like an asshole.

"I won't again," Damian eventually promised, taking less offense than Jason thought was merited. "Not until I'm old and useless."

"Neither will I," Jason said. "Let's let someone else take a turn with that, yeah?"

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 11:05 PM**

 **Day 6**

It was a slow night in Gotham, and it was making Dick Grayson nervous. Not in the least because he was the one hanging behind in the Batcave tonight, on call for any disasters larger than those to be found on patrol. Tim was on the premises, but he'd skulked off with one of the untraceable Batphones, the ones which routed through the Watchtower. If he was calling Stephanie instead of helping out, there was going to be a reckoning later, Dick through darkly. Unless he was using it to actively finding Shazam, (who may no longer be their enemy? No one seemed to actually know for certain, and he was about done questioning this) Dick was going to be pissed.

As it was, Tim wasn't the only one breaking the rules. To stave off his anxiety, Dick had done something Bruce would never allow—he brought a toddler into the Batcave.

(He made no excuses; being alone would only key him up further. He was literally born in a circus,and he loathed being alone.)

As little Mikey wasn't sleeping _anyway,_ he toted the kid down to the Batcave and let him play on the floor while he monitored Gotham. Michael was happy as a clam down there, in the presence of Unca Dick and the damp air of the cave. He quietly played with his dino and his barbie (and wherever that came from, Dick would be interested in knowing. Who had given Michael Wilson, the grandson of Deathstroke, a Gymnast Barbie? He may never know, but they deserved an actual medal.) and Alfred's ipad, which he had downloaded several games onto, just for the little sprout.

 _Bruce would have had kittens_ , Dick knew. _But he hates kids, so there was really no winning scenario, here._ It was also not like B was there to stop him. There had been some trouble catching a plane back, almost like they had forgotten every one of Ferris's planes had been tied up in evacuating Chicago, and the Batwing had been powered down and given new access codes, just in case the trio was compromised. As it was, they were still 40 minutes out of Gotham, and—

At 11:08 PM, a window popped open on the Batcomputer screen. Dick frowned as he scanned the intro text. A transmission from Black Canary . . . and her tracking location was still in Des Plaines? Last Babs had heard, they were already on the plane. Had she lost one of her recording devices? Was it picking up something now?

This could be the break they needed. He leaned forward and started up the recording. It was a complete file, and an old fashioned audio recorder player popped up, giving the total length of the recording as 12 hours. There was a faint hiss of static—something had been partially blocking the signal—and then he heard Bruce and Helena, quietly discussing their plans to get into the building.

 _Boring,_ Dick thought, and tried to skip ahead to the end of the recording. The cursor got stuck about an hour in, however, and a snippet of audio played before he could reset.

It was Helena's voice, and she sound determined, albeit defeated. "I am not afraid to die," she whispered. "Even at your hands."

Dick stopped breathing. Waitwait _what?_ He let the recording play. This had been recorded at—what the hell? 11:47 AM?

There was the sound of an electrical charge, and a high-pitched scream. Black Canary's muffled _no!_ And then, for the space of a few minutes, nothing at all.

What was unmistakably Ra's al Ghul's voice broke the silence. "This is but a taste of our sincerity. We will take much more from the two of you," he declared in his gentle accent. "Let us begin."

Dick paused the recording, his heart hammering in his chest and his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Then, for the first time in their vigilante careers, he went over Barbara's head.

He pulled up the deceased member alert, and sent it to everyone.

Only then did he hail Jason and Damian. "Come home, guys," he said, his voice breaking. "Come home _right now."_

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 11:16 PM**

 **Day 6**

Deceased— _BATMAN, BLACK CANARY, and HUNTRESS._

 _Repeat:_ they are all dead.

 _Urgent: Do not answer any hails or communication from any of 'them.' If seen, do not engage. The enemy has found a way to trick us._

 _Audio and Visual only, Channel 63._

 _20 minutes._

 **June 26th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 11:39 PM**

 **Day 6**

There had been many meetings since the Iconoclasts attacked, but none of them had begun with Richard Grayson screaming at her.

"What the hell, _Oracle?"_ He was practically frothing at the mouth. He had listened to more of the recording before the meeting, and now was beside himself. Tim stood there with his hand on his older brother's shoulder, grim-faced, but trying his best to keep Richard together as he continued to rave. "How the hell could you have thought they were ok? Helena died 12 hours ago! The audio is _clear!"_

Barbara hung her head. The first thing she had done was to run the new recording through a program that would separate all the audio from the silence, leaving them with a recording that was a little over an hour. Then, she had run it through a transcription device, and speed read as much as she could. What she'd read broke her heart. She deserved every ounce of vitriol he could throw at her.

Their technology had trumped hers, and she had fallen for their trick. She had failed Bruce, Dinah, and Helena . . . and if not for an incredible stroke of luck, they would have never known.

"This was not what I'd been listening to all day, Richard," she attempted to explain. "I have audio and visual from _all_ of them, throughout the day. I have run it through voice recognition software. It was their voices!"

"So is this!" Richard argued. "One of them's gotta be a trick. Which one is it?"

Flash's connection lit up on her monitor, but Barbara was surprised to see a haggard looking Oliver Queen tied to a chair.

"What the fuck is going on?" Green Arrow spat, and contrasting with his usual expressivity, his voice was cold as stone. Barbara was not entirely surprised. In the span of 20 minutes, he had lost the love of his life. "Dinah's not dead," he continued. "Why the fuck aren't you letting me contact her?"

Barry Allen sidled next to him in the same monitor. He must have raced to Seattle and then dragged him back to Central City when he received the death alert, all to keep Ollie from doing something stupid. "I've got his phone. And him," he said, explaining the captivity. "But someone better tell us what the hell is going on. I thought everyone was fine. Did something happen to the plane?"

"The plane they were on changed course the minute the death alert was sent out," Carol said, her voice grim. "Someone on that plane got the message, and turned it right back around."

"Shit," Oracle breathed. There was confirmation she hadn't wanted. "Everyone, try to keep calm. The Iconoclasts tampered with the recording devices, but they missed one on Dinah. We have this warning, which gives us some time." Her breath shuddered on the exhale. "Bruce, Dinah, and Helena are dead. We will play the untampered recording as soon as everyone gets on the line."

"No, she is fucking not dead!" Ollie screamed, and Barry quickly adjusted the ropes binding him. He tried to comfort his friend but Ollie leaned over and attempted to bite him.

"Oliver, there is nothing I can say that will make this any easier for you, or for any of us," Barbara apologized. "You have lost Dinah, Damian has lost his father. Richard has lost his partner, and I've lost three, beloved friends and mentors. This is not going to be easy to accept, but we have to bear it. We have to keep on fighting, because _no one else can_."

Ollie's chest was heaving. He began to cry, his face red and splotchy. Just then, Jason and Damian slid into view on the Batcomputer screen, followed by Roy and Koriand'r.

"Oracle, how did my father die?" Damian asked, in a voice that sounded so small, so weak, that Barbara couldn't answer for a moment.

"What happened?" Jason asked, in a calmer, if expressionless tone. Barbara had never thought she'd see the day when Jason was the most reasonable of the boys. Now, with his anchoring grip on Damian's shoulder, and Tim's attempt to keep Richard calm, he was one of the few people in the cave that she could rely on.

Until the end, at least. Until the part where Bruce had broken down and talked about them. Even Jason wouldn't be calm, then.

Blue Beetle and Booster Gold signed on, once again sharing a monitor. It was a fortunate thing that those two could actually stand each other, in Barbara's opinion. They might keep each other strong when others might falter.

"We got the message," Ted said. "What happened? We thought everything was fine!"

"Someone's going to pay," Michael Carter said, in a darker tone than Barbara had ever heard from him.

"I've had no word from Shayera," Barbara said. "John said Luthor was in a rage, and he can't get away. I think we can begin. Flash, if you would untie Arrow?"

"He might run," Barry said.

"I won't," Ollie promised. "If she's . . . I gotta know. I gotta know _everything."_

After a moment's hesitation, Barry leaned forward and untied Ollie. Arrow remained sitting in the chair, slumping forward and putting his head in his hands.

Barbara leaned forward and pressed play.

 **File ID: 68772_6/26—HH/MM/SS**

 **File Name: BC_1.4_ 4**

 **File start time: 10:47 AM.**

 **File end time: 11:08 PM.**

[00.00] Background noise—clicking sound to indicate start tape

 **Huntress:** [00.00.09] All I'm saying is that you're the most recognizable of all of us. Or did

you forget that you moonlight as Bruce Wayne?

 **Batman:** [00.00.14] Have any better ideas?

 **Huntress:** [00.00.17] For starters, we can call in a bomb threat and get everyone to leave

the building, including the civilians. And then—

 **Canary:** [00.00.21] And let them know something's coming? Helena, it's going to be ok.

We have all the requisite equipment to sneak into the focus group meeting at 11.

We're going to get in, find the evidence we need, and get out. Now are we all set?

 **Batman:** [00.00.32] How come she listens to you?

 **Huntress:** [00.00.35] You're not wearing fishnets. Those are a big symbol of authority to me.

[00.00.38] Background noise—sound of door opening

 **Batman:** [00.00.40] Right now, neither is she.

 **Canary:** [00.00.42] Focus, guys. _Her voice turns bright, and she ends her sentence with_

 _an upswing._ Oh, hi! We're here for the focus group on cars?

 **Hostess:** [00.00.47] Your name?

 **Helena:** [00.00.48] Morgan Ciampaglia.

 **Hostess:** [00.01.03] Campaglia . . . Ciampaglia . . .annnnnd here you are! Right through those

doors. Help yourself to coffee and pastries before the group begins—you can't take

any food with you when you go. And you are?

 **Batman:** [00.01.10] Peter Richards.

 **Canary:** [00.01.11] Olivia McQueen.

 **Hostess:** [00.02.31] Ummm. Here you are and here . . . oh, there you are. Perfect. Follow Ms.

Ciampaglia through the double doors. The group will begin in just a few minutes.

 **Canary:** [00.02.39] Thanks. Is there time for me to use the ladies' room, first?

 **Hostess:** [00.02.43] Absolutely! They're down that hallway. Third door on the left. Be

careful on your way back. It's like a maze in here.

 **Canary:** [00.06.27] _To herself._ Playing hooky in the research facility's bathroom. How

the mighty have fallen.

[00.06.39] Background noise—the sound of a door swinging open.

 **Batman:** [00.06.43] Is 'Morgan' with you?

 **Canary:** [00.06.45] Jesus, Bruce. This is the ladies room. You can't just come _in_ here.

 **Batman:** [00.06.50] We won't be here long. Where's Helena?

 **Canary:** [00.06.52] She's gonna do thirty or so minutes of the session and then fake being ill.

That way if they catch us she's in position. Ready to go?

 **Batman** : [00.06.56] Always.

 **Canary:** [00.17.07] Receptionist wasn't kidding. This place _is_ a maze.

 **Batman:** [00.17.11] Something's wrong. Why haven't we seen anyone yet?

 **Canary:** [00.17.13] They're all in the group, aren't they? Wait, wait, look. This door isn't on

the blueprints.

[00.17.22] Background noise—the sound of a door creaking open.

 **Canary:** [00.17.26] Huh. Spooky. Didn't know this place had a basement.

 **Batman** : [00.17.35] _Speaking softly._ Helena, we've found a lower level. We're heading

down. Target our coordinates to follow. _Speaking louder._ Let's go.

 **Canary:** [00.24.46] Shit. Are you seeing this?

 **Batman:** [00.24.49] This isn't good.

 **Canary:** [00.24.54] Those are _cages._ Who or what were they keeping down here?

 **Batman:** [00.24.59] I don't recognize all the technology in this room. The rest has Luthor's

stamp on it . . .

 **Canary:** [00.25.05] Well, we've found them, all right, and what Luthor's putting his money

towards. You take left, I take right? Whenever we find something about Chicago

we send it through to Barbara?

 **Batman:** [00.25.16] We're going to need to quarantine the building afterwards. Possibly

destroy it. We can't let them keep their base.

 **Canary:** [00.25.26] _Chuckles weakly._ Guess Helena gets her bomb threat after all.

 **Batman:** [00.25.38] Start looking. The sooner we get out of here, the better. Something

about this feels wrong.

[00.32.17] Background noise—the sound of file cabinets opening, papers rustling,

and murmurs too quiet to be distinct.

 **Batman:** [00.39.08] Dinah, take a look at this.

 **Canary:** [00.39.18] Oh my God.

 **Batman:** [00.39.30] Bomb drops, choke points, planned mechanical malfunctions . . . He even

mapped out all the bunkers and safety zones. And what is . . . Luthor's _Bane?_ That's

what they named the mystery weapon?

 **Canary:** [00.39.55] This isn't Chicago. This is _Metropolis._

 **Batman:** [00.40.02] They must have used the test weapon on Metropolis, first. That's

where all Luthor's money went. It wasn't alien technology at all!

 **Canary:** [00.40.18] But this doesn't make any _sense._ Metropolis is Luthor's home. As much as

he hates us, he _loves_ Metropolis.

 **Batman:** [00.40.42] Keep looking. The answer must be here somewhere.

 **Canary:** [00.44.55] _Muttering to herself._ No, this isn't it either. You found anything?

 **Batman:** [00.45.06] I can't get the computer to even turn _on._ Nor can I reach Oracle. I think

we should—

 **Huntress:** [00.45.12] _Her voice is tinny, echoing through the receiver. Her panic is audible._

Trap trap trap! Get out of there, it's a tra—

[00.45.17] Background noise—something is dropped to the floor.

 **Canary:** [00.45.19] Shit.

 **Batman:** [00.45.19] Let's go—

[00.45.22] Background noise—a door is thrown open with a clatter. There is the

sound of many people rushing into the room. Indistinguishable orders are called

out. Within several minutes all sounds come to a complete stop.

 **Huntress:** [00.51.45] Fuck you, asshole! Get your hands _off_ of me!

[00.51.49] Background noise—quiet grunts, gasps, and sounds of struggling.

 **Canary:** [00.53.05] What the fucking fuck? Why can't we move?!

 **Batman:** [00.53.10] _His voice dark, and full of menace._ Ra's.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [00.53.14] Hello, Bruce. So good of you to drop in. And you've even brought

some friends along. They're not quite the calibre of your little protegés, are they?

My grandson in particular. How is he doing?

 **Batman:** [00.53.28] Better than his mother.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [00.53.31] You wound me, Bruce.

 **Batman** : [00.53.33] You _killed_ her!

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [00.53.35] And that upsets you? How sentimental of you. Ah, but it seems your

friend has a better idea. Dinah Lance, is it? You can stop trying to send out any

distress calls. Ikon technology prohibits such annoyances.

 **Canary:** [00.53.50] Well fuck you and the pony you rode in on. We'll have to do this the

hard way, huh?

 **Batman:** [00.53.58] Don't bait him—

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [00.54.01] _Laughs charmingly._ On the contrary! I find her determination delightful.

You know how much I enjoy breaking the wills of those who defy me.

[00.54.12] Background noise—there is an incredible shriek that rips through the

room, scattering the soundwaves on the audio recording. For several minutes, all

is white noise, and then the recording comes back online.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [00.57.55] So _that_ was the infamous 'canary cry?' It's nothing but an ultrasonic

scream. How disappointing.

 **Batman:** [00.58.11] How are you immune to that?

 **Huntress:** [00.58.14] _Muffled, as if speaking around some obstruction._ Guys no, I saw him

change. He's not—

[00.58.17] Background noise—the sound of a sharp crack. Helena falls silent.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [00.58.22] Exciting as this all is, we have a schedule to keep. Bring Huntress

forward.

 **Canary:** [00.58.31] Don't touch her!

 **Batman:** [00.58.34] Ra's, they are nothing to you. Let you and I settle this. That is the

honorable way.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [00.58.40] Perhaps, but it is not what will happen.

[00.58.46] Background noise—the sound of something electric sizzling. Helena

screams in pain.

 **Canary:** [00.58.57] Goddamnit! Helena, stay strong!

 **Batman:** [00.59.00] Ra's!

[00.59.05] Background noise—another electrical discharge. Helena cries out again, but weaker.

 **Ra's al Ghul** : [01.00.12] Hmmmm. Tougher than you look, aren't you? Most die in only one

application of this device. It took three to kill Victor Stone. I thought it was his

mechanical plating that protected him. Perhaps it was something else.

 **Huntress** : [01.00.57] _Weakly, and in pain._ You . . . _fucker. . . ._ I am not afraid to die. Not

even at your hands.

[01.01.29] Background noise—Ragged, pained breathing. A third electrical

discharge. Helena's scream tapers away, and Dinah cries out. Then there is silence.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [01.04.06] This is but a taste of our sincerity. We will take much more from the

two of you. Let us begin.

[01.05.19] Background noise—sound of struggle, and several heavy objects fall

to the floor.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [01.07.22] _Applauding._ You managed to down my men even when you should be

totally unable to move? You find new ways to impress me every day, Bruce. Flood

the chamber.

 **Soldier:** [01.07.35] But sir!

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [01.07.37] Do it.

[01.07.42] Background noise—hissing sound as gas is pumped in through the

vents. Coughing and choking from all those in the room.

 **Batman:** [01.09.17] _Weakly, gasping for air._ You won't . . . win, Ra's.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [01.09.25] Oh, Bruce. We already have.

[02.30.16] Background noise—the squeaky wheel of a gurney.

 **Interrogator:** [02.30.27] _Her voice is young, and expressionless._ Subject Dinah Lance

responded well to the neural stimulation program. Barring any excess of will, she

should be malleable within reasonable parameters. She will regain

consciousness in approximately twenty minutes.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [02.30.41] What was on her?

 **Interrogator:** [02.30.45] Besides a plethora of hidden weapons, we found three recording

devices on each, all set to instant transmission. Their clothes were wired, and there

were visual recorders in all their contact lenses. Subject Helena Bertinelli had them in her sunglasses, as well.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [02.30.59] Have you 'fixed' them?

 **Interrogator:** [02.31.07] Of course. Their compatriots should see and hear only what we allow

them to. We began overwriting the earlier data with falsified images and audio the

moment they entered the doors. Our agents are in place, although we won't send them back to Gotham

until we finish interrogating the subjects. Any and all information is crucial at this junction.

They are too close to suspecting.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [02.31.26] We can't have that.

 **Interrogator:** [02.31.28] How goes Subject Bruce Wayne?

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [02.31.31] Woke five minutes ago. Had to paralyze his entire body. We can take

no chances with that one.

 **Interrogator:** [02.31.38] Five minutes ago? That's too early. He should have been out for

another half hour.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [02.31.44] _Speaking harshly._ Don't underestimate him. Nor this woman. We've

succeeded so far only because they were blindsided. We can still fail.

 **Interrogator:** [02.31.52] We shall do no such thing. Failure is inconceivable.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [02.31.55] Then why are our agents on the inside growing worried?

[02.32.04] Background noise—Dinah moans quietly.

 **Ra's al Ghul:** [02.32.08] See? She already begins to wake. Get her into the chamber and begin the

interrogation. I will see to the Bat.

 **Interrogator:** [02.46.48] Good afternoon, Dinah Lance.

 **Canary:** [02.47.14] Where . . . what . . .?

 **Interrogator:** [02.47.20] I have a series of questions I am going to ask you, Dinah Lance. Every

time you answer honestly, I will activate a rush of endorphins that will stimulate

the pleasure receptors in your brain. Every time you do not, I will hurt you, in a

variety of ways. Do you understand?

 **Canary:** [02.47.44] Fuck . . . you.

 **Interrogator** : [02.47.52] Excellent. You currently reside in the Clocktower of Gotham City,

correct?

 **Canary:** [02.48.00] Where's Batman?

 **Interrogator:** [02.48.03] Incorrect.

[02.48.22] Background noise—the sound of a faint motor, like a dentist's drill.

Dinah gurgles in pain.

 **Interrogator:** [02.52.14] Let us try again. You are currently engaged in sexual and romantic

overtures with Oliver Queen, also known as 'Green Arrow?'

 **Canary:** [02.52.25] _Slurring her words._ Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_ touch him.

 **Interrogator:** [02.52.33] Incorrect, again.

[02.52.37] Background noise—the whisper of something metallic being

withdrawn. Dinah grunts, her breath hitching.

 **Interrogator:** [02.57.55] Next question: your body is infertile, correct?

 **Canary:** [02.58.02] _More clearly._ Fuck off!

[02.58.12] Background noise—Dinah's sudden scream, rising high before it tapers

off.

 **Interrogator:** [03.04.29] You will not last long if we continue at this pace. Let's try another dose of

the serum. That will make you more cooperative . . .

 **Interrogator:** [04.20.16] Let's try this again, shall we?

[4.20.22] Background noise—sound of a console beeping, and a hiss of air.

 **Canary:** [04.23.10] _Mumbles incoherently._

 **Interrogator:** [04.23.40] The dosage was a bit stronger, this time. Human bodies are so frail. Here

is a jolt of something pleasant to wake you up.

[04.23.55] Background noise—Dinah moans in surprised pleasure.

 **Interrogator:** [04.24.28] See what we can do for you, before the end? All you have to do is

answer a few questions. Can you do that, Dinah Lance?

 **Canary:** [04.24.40] Go to _Hell._

 **Interrogator:** [04.24.44] Such ingratitude. Your ability, your 'canary cry'—is it magical, or

genetic?

 **Canary:** [04.24.51] Want to find out?

[04.24.53] Background noise—a garbled, failed version of her ultrasonic scream.

Dinah sobs, and struggles to speak around wet gurgles and choking.

 **Canary:** [04.25.11] _In a whisper._ Oh God, that's blood . . . What did you do to my throat? Line

it with glass?

 **Interrogator:** [04.25.22] This is what happens when you stand against us, Dinah Lance. Are

you prepared to continue?

 **Canary:** [04.25.30] No . . . No, I won't . . .

 **Interrogator:** [04.25.38] If you could only save one, would you save Oliver Queen, or Barbara

Gordon?

 **Canary:** [04.25.49] Both, you bitch. I'd save both.

 **Interrogator:** [04.25.53] That wasn't so hard. As a reward . . .

[04.25.56] Background noise—Dinah moans, and attempts to choke it off.

 **Canary:** [04.26.12] Goddamnit. Get out of my brain. Get out of me!

[04.26.15] Background noise—sounds of a struggle. Something metallic creaks, and

there is a popping sound, like a lightbulb went out.

 **Interrogator:** [04.27.00] Again you resist? I'll leave you to a more standard form of torture.

When I return, I hope you will be more forthcoming.

 **[Truncated** ] [05.15.56]—[06.48.17] Background noise—for a long, long time, there are bitten

back groans, gasps, hitched breaths, cries, and inarticulate pleas. In periodic bursts

there are sounds of a motor, of drills, the dull smack of blunt objects, sharp

cracks of a whip, and of blades being sharpened.

At the end, Dinah sobs quietly.

 **Interrogator:** [07.32.06] Hello again, Dinah Lance. Are you feeling more cooperative now?

[07.32.13] Background noise—Dinah moans in pain.

 **Interrogator:** [07.32.17] Excellent. I'd like to revisit the one question you felt capable of

answering. Who would you save, Oliver Queen, or Barbara Gordon?

 **Canary:** [07.32.36] _Rasping._ Neither.

 **Interrogator:** [07.32.40] I admit I do not know whether to punish or reward you. Are you

speaking honestly?

 **Canary:** [07.32.46] Yes.

 **Interrogator:** [07.32.49] Can you explain?

 **Canary:** [07.32.53] They don't . . . need me to save them. I . . . need them to save _me._

 **Interrogator:** [07.33.02] Excellent. Your reward—

 **Canary** : [07.33.06] _No._ Don't—ahhhh! Goddamnit!

[07.34.02] Background noise—Dinah sobs openly.

 **Canary:** [07.36.10] Stop—stop making me come when I'm ripped open from the neck

down . . .

 **Interrogator:** [07.36.18] You answered honestly, so you get your reward. Your species reacts

very strongly to both pleasure and pain. It is invigorating to be the cause of both.

 **Canary:** [07.36.29] How . . . am I still alive? I should be dead. Why won't I die?

 **Interrogator:** [07.36.37] You are very resilient, Dinah Lance. But the question remains: whose

life means more to you? Oliver Queen's, or Barbara Gordon's?

 **Canary:** [07.36.48] Fuck . . . them.

 **Interrogator:** [07.36.52] Is your answer once again, 'neither?'

 **Canary:** [07.36.56] I said fuck them! Fuck all of them! _Her voice rises angrily._ This is all

Oracle's fault. She sent us here to die. I hope she spends the rest of her

miserable, crippled existence blaming herself for not saving us. Why didn't she

save us? Didn't she care?

 **Canary:** [07.37.12] _Less coherently._ And . . . and Barry's no good to anyone. All moody and

depressing, he should stay alone forever and not infect us with his bullshit. And

Hal. Where is he, huh? Saving all the worlds in the universe and can't help us?

What the fuck good are you, Hal Jordan? You spineless coward. You should be

wearing a yellow ring because you can't face your fucking fears!

 **Interrogator:** [07.37.37] Dinah Lance, if you do not calm yourself, you will die soon.

 **Canary:** [07.37.42] And Ollie? _Ollie._ I want him to put an arrow through your brainpan, you

soulless bitch. And then I want him to be fucking miserable without me. I want

him to spend every day wishing he were a little bit smarter, faster, _better_ , so that

he could've saved me. But that's a lie, because I don't want him to live without

me. _Her breath hitches._ I want him to die and be with me.

 **Interrogator:** [07.38.12] Is that all?

 **Canary:** [07.38.15] _Very weakly._ Helena used to pray, you know. I liked the one she did to

the rosary. I'll say it for you, Helena, and if you were right about what comes

after, you'll hear me. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee—

 **Interrogator** : [07.38.35] Dinah Lance—

 **Canary:** [07.38.38] Blessed are thou amongst women—ahhhh!

[07.38.46] Background noise—there is a ragged inhalation of breath.

 **Interrogator:** [07.38.54] One more might kill you.

 **Canary:** [07.38.57] _Whispering._ Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners . . . now,

and at the hour—

[07.39.06] Background noise—there is the muted sound of something falling

down.

 **Interrogator:** [07.39.18] _From a distance._ She is unconscious again. I have all I need from her.

Bring her to the observation room. Let us see if she reveals anything else before she dies.

[08.24.04] Background noise—the sound of a door opening. Men murmur quietly.

The door is slammed shut, and Canary moans in pain.

 **Canary:** [08.25.36] _Prays quietly to herself._ Hail Mary, Holy Queen—no, no. Pray for us

sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb,

Jesus . . . now and at the hour. Hour of . . .

[08.26.12] Background noise—a quick intake of breath. Quiet sound of nails over concrete,

and the shift of cloth across the floor.

 **Canary:** [08.28.05] Bruce! Why are you sitting like that? Why is your leg . . . on the . . .

[08.28.16] Background noise—ragged, pained breathing.

 **Canary:** [08.29.02] Hey Bruce. _Bruce,_ wake up. I have to tell you something. _A rattling_

 _breath._ I lied to them, Bruce. Everything I said was bullshit but I think they believed

me. Ollie will know. He'll know how much I love him. How much I want him to be

better, and to . . . to live, and . . . and be _happy._ And Barry's . . .the sweetest of all of us.

So kind, keeps everyone together. And I know you don't like him but Hal's the

bravest guy I know. Strongest, except for you and Clark, I guess. And Babs . . . Babs is

amazing. She's my best friend, and why we made it this far.

 **Canary** : [08.30.09] _Voice grows ever weaker._ They'll know. Our friends. They love us. And

they'll know.

[08.30.16] Background noise—sound of cloth whispering over stone.

 **Canary:** [08.32.48] _Whispers._ Oh God. You're not Bruce.

[08.33.00] Background noise—the sound of a choked gurgle, and a slow exhale. The

sound of a body falling to the floor.

[11.52.05] Background noise—door swings open. Men laugh as something falls

to the ground with a pained, masculine groan. The door slams shut.

A moment of silence and then there is a shocked inhale.

 **Batman:** [11.55.49] Dinah? Oh, God. _Dinah._

[11.56.13] Background noise—rustling noise, growing louder. There is the sound

of something coming very close to the microphone, jostling it slightly.

 **Batman:** [12.00.06] _Whispers._ Thank God, they didn't find . . . Your suffering is over, Dinah.

[12.00.46] Background noise—the door opens.

 **Batman:** [12.01.08] _Growling._ What more do you want?

 **Interrogator:** [12.01.12] This is goodbye, Bruce Wayne. You are dying. You have passed the

critical amount of blood loss, and your internal organs are failing. When your heart

stops beating, this facility is rigged to explode. Then all will be over.

 **Batman:** [12.01.33] Why are you telling me this?

 **Interrogator:** [12.01.35] So that you may despair in your last moments.

 **Batman:** [12.01.46] You don't _know_ me, do you?

 **Unknown:** [12.01.50] _Quietly._ He said to watch him die.

 **Interrogator** : [12.01.54] He's all but dead. We need to get to Gotham.

 **Unknown** : [12.02.00] But—

 **Interrogator:** [12.02.05] When he dies, the facility will blow sky high. We'll know that he's dead.

Let's go. We need to prepare for the Atlantean stage of the invasion.

[12.02.16] Background noise—door slams shut.

 **Batman:** [12.05.36] _In a hushed, rasping voice, very close to the microphone._ I didn't give them

anything. Not a single word. I don't know what they injected us with, but it's like

nothing I've ever experienced. It made me . . . it made me _want_ to talk to them. Made

me want to unburden myself. I couldn't. Not to them. But maybe . . . maybe I could to

you.

[12.06.01] Background noise—the device is jostled again, crackling. There is a

faint feedback.

 **Batman:** [12.06.23] I always wanted Selina to join Birds of Prey, full time. I thought she could

do such good with you. Wouldn't be bored so quickly. I could fight _with_ her, instead

of against her. It's such a rush when that happens. I love it. I . . . I love . . .

 **Batman:** [12.06.53] _Clears throat, chokes._ I wish I could have said goodbye to Barbara

and Alfred. Oh God, Alfred. After all he's done for me. He's more of a father to

me than a man I barely remember. I wish I could have been the man he wanted

me to be.

 **Batman:** [12.07.16] The boys. My Robins. Thank them for all they've done. All they've

sacrificed. I wish I could given them better lives. Happier lives. I wish none of

them had ever died. Dick . . . he was my first partner. It couldn't have been

anyone but him. He changed me so much. I think he made me bearable. And Tim

\- he's brilliant, so much more than I was at his age. So calm, level-headed . . .

he's going to be a force to be reckoned with, and more for what makes him Tim _,_

than Robin.

[12.08.02] Background noise—Bruce gurgles, spits something out. Something

clatters on the floor. Wheezing, ragged breathing.

 **Batman:** [12.10.35] _Weaker now._ Damian. He's so much like his mother that it surprises

me when I find myself in him. I want so much for him. He's a firebrand, and I

want him to burn his own path, until he's something greater than his grandfather.

Something greater than me.

[12.11.08] Background noise—the receiver rustles again.

 **Batman:** [12.12.06] I'm going to send it, Dinah. Before I die. I should send it now. I should—

[12.17.45] Background noise—a deep, labored breath.

 **Batman:** [12.18.38] _Softly, barely more than a whisper._ But you know the one I think of

most? Now that I'm so close to death? I think of Jason. Jason, more than any of them.

I could . . . I could never find the way to his heart. Even though . . . he's the most like

me of all my sons. I think now . . . now I'll have the chance. I won't fear death. Not if it

. . . it will help me understand him.

 **Batman:** [12.19.47] I'm sorry, Clark. I couldn't keep my promise.

[12.20.57] Background noise—a fumbling sound directly up against the receiver.

[12.21.01] End of Recording.

…

…

…

…

…

 **When I began this story, I was working a job that was a serious detriment to my emotional and mental well-being. I was depressed, and completely adrift. The end of this chapter was the scene I could imagine most vividly, and in my opinion this is the darkest hour of the story, and it was born of my unhealthy frame of mind. It was the most vibrant picture I had of the story, and I think it drove me to keep writing when all I wanted to do was give up.**

 **There are still some difficult things ahead of us, but nothing so hard as this. It will get better. It will.**

 **(To those who are turned off by major character death, go back to chapter 1 and read the intro notes/archive tags. Just saying.)**

 **(Also, do you know how long it took me to format this? Way too long. I used a timer. That is dedication.)**

 **Thank you for reading.**


	6. Ch 5 - Downward Spiral

**I would like to point out that each chapter introduces a new character's point of view. The last chapter was Dick Grayson, the chapter before that Dinah Lance, etc. The trend will continue, and here is the hint: no one aligned with the Ikons will have a POV. (Although not every single character, innocent or not, will have the story told from their perspective.)**

 **That in mind, can you tell who is/are the traitor(s)?**

 **Also, Michael Carter utters an infamous line from** _ **Firefly**_ **. Can you find it?**

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Downward Spiral**

* * *

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 2:04 AM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

 **...**

" _I'm sorry, Clark. I couldn't keep my promise."_

Silence reigned after Bruce's last words. No one could move, not even Barry. He felt as if his entire body had somehow been removed from the Speed Force.

In this case, normalcy felt like stagnation. It felt like despair.

All at once, Dick Grayson began to sob. He turned away from the camera, jarring Jason Todd, who had been staring at the ceiling, stunned, eyes wet and hands clenched into fists at his sides. Clumsily, as if he barely knew what he was doing, he reached out for Dick; grabbing him by the shoulders, just as Dick lost it entirely.

" _Why?_ " Dick wailed, throwing himself at Jason, swinging his elbow into the taller man's midsection. " _Why?!"_

After a moment of scuffling, Jason adjusted his grip so that that Dick couldn't fight his way free. "Richard, you—," Jason choked off, just loudly enough for the speakers to pick up. "We need to—"It took another try to spit out, "You gotta keep it together. Think of Tim and Damian. You gotta do it for them 'cuz they need you. They need their big brother."

Jason turned his head to the side and murmured something else, too quietly for anyone else to hear. That, along with his earlier entreaty, appeared to calm Dick down. He collapsed bonelessly against Jason, who staggered a little under his weight. Nightwing wept like a child; lost, alone, and struck to the heart.

Standing next to them, Tim and Damian looked no better. Tim was hunched over the console, his hands clenched into fists. Damian stared wide-eyed and uncomprehending at the monitor.

 _It never occurred to the kid that his dad could die,_ Barry realized. _He's died himself, and yet in his head his dad was invincible._

 _Jesus, in_ my _head Batman was invincible!_

"I . . ." Damian began, haltingly, gaze unfocused. "Alfred. We . . . must tell . . ."

Tim picked his head up. His cheeks were stained with tears, but his face was fixed with determination. "Oracle, permission to tell Alfred?"

Barbara jerked her chin. It was the closest she could come when she was crying, herself. "Permission granted. Tell me if he needs anything, I'll do what I can."

Tim nodded before leading Damian away from the supercomputer. Bruce's youngest son was so upset, so in shock, that he allowed it without fuss. Tim kept his hand firmly on Damian's back the entire time, and their pace was slow.

Koriand'r stepped up to Dick and Jason, and she put her arms around both of them. Roy followed suit a moment later. The four of them locked together, sharing their grief, made him remember Ollie.

Barry turned to comfort him, hearing the echoes of Dinah's last words to him—' _And Barry's . . . the sweetest of all of us. So kind, keeps everyone together.'_ He felt as if her accolade was unearned. He had no idea what to do or to say, because after Iris died he had retreated so far into himself that only Hal, a lot of angry words, and a big fight in the middle of nowhere, Missouri, had been able to bring him back.

He didn't think he could bring himself to fight Ollie, not when he was as badly off as Nightwing. But Ollie was not crying. Nor was he grieving, as far as Barry could tell. He was staring at their monitor, pale-faced and furious. The force of his rage astounded Barry. He had never seen Ollie like this. He'd never known the man had such depths of emotion.

 _This is how evil is born,_ he thought, looking at him. This was followed by the more practical, _how can I keep him from this path?_

"What do we do?" Carol murmured, and her makeup was smeared from her own tears. She was more in control of herself, but she had lost two friends, and one of the greatest heroes of her age. "What do we _do?"_

"How are we gonna tell Superman that _Batman_ is dead?" Ted whispered, his normally intelligent features now slack with shock. "How are we gonna get past this?"

"We have to carry on," Michael Carter decided. He was never very sympathetic even at the best of times, but now it was particularly jarring. "We need to end this war, and—"

" _Shut up,"_ Ollie whispered. Barry glanced back at him from the corner of his eye, ready to restrain him if he needed to.

"We need to make a plan, Oliver," Ted said gently, trying to smooth over the fight before it erupted. "If we don't—"

"Oh, I know exactly what will happen if you don't," Ollie said, his voice dark and dangerous. "Because I know exactly what you are. No one is making any plans with you two on the line."

"Excuse me?" Michael asked, clearly offended.

"Ollie . . ." Barry began.

" _Agents on the inside,_ Ra's said," Ollie spat. "Don't you get it? They're among us! And if Bruce hadn't sent us that recording—if they hadn't missed the device in D—Di . . . in _her_ ear, three of them would have come back _wearing their fucking faces."_

"Arrow, this is not the time—" Barbara said, only to be cut off.

"Like hell it isn't the time!" Ollie screamed. "They're the traitors! They're the Iconoclasts! They're the reason Dinah is dead!"

Barry moved just in time. He grabbed Ollie and held him just as firmly as Jason had Dick, only minutes ago.

" _And if they are, you're blowing our chance to use it,_ " he murmured, right next to Ollie's ear. " _I believe you, Ollie, but if we tip our hand, her death will be for nothing."_

Ollie shuddered violently before shoving him away. He didn't continue his accusations, however, so Barry took that as a win.

"You don't know," Ollie moaned, and now that the rage was passing, despair was moving in its wake. "Iris wasn't—she wasn't _tortured,_ goddamnit," he whispered, breaking down.

"We are _not_ the traitors," Ted said, his voice low and serious. "I don't know why you think that, Ollie, but it is _not true."_

"We wouldn't be helping evacuate Chicago if we were the Iconoclasts," Michael added.

"If not you, then who?" Carol asked, frantic.

"Arrow in your brainpain, Booster!" Ollie yelled, overcome.

The meeting devolved into a mass of unfounded accusations and blinding rage Ted and Michael stood up for each other, shouting down Ollie, Carol, and even Roy, who tore himself away from comforting Dick and Jason. In a rare show of solidarity, he agreed with his foster father.

"Get off the line!" Roy screamed at them, hunching over the Batcomputer. "Get out!"

"Roy, please. Think about what you're saying," Kori begged him.

Jason left a still-sobbing Dick in her hold to pull Roy away from the monitor. "It's gonna be ok," he reassured him, in a robotic tone. "We'll get to the bottom of this. Kori and your kid are gonna be safe. I swear."

It was a strange, dark day when a shell-shocked Red Hood was one of the most rational members of the league. Barry wondered why Oracle had yet to weigh in. It almost looked like she wasn't paying attention—her gaze was up and to the right, and she was clearly clicking on another screen.

"Oracle?" He prompted. "Are you gonna bring this meeting to order, or shall I?"

Her eyes refocused. "Actually, I think we might let Green Lantern do it," she said.

"Hal?" Ollie choked out. "He's back?"

Barbara nodded. "He just hailed the Watchtower. He, Superman, and Martian Manhunter all have override codes to get in—he should beam down in a few minutes."

Barry felt his entire body relax. It was silly, but even just the sound of his name was enough to focus him. It would be all right. Hal was here, and he would find a way to keep Ollie from the brink.

He looked over at Carol's section of the monitor. "Carol, I know you want to see him, but I think Ollie needs him most."

Carol narrowed her gaze at him. Barry held her gaze, feeling unaccountably guilty. _This isn't even for me!_ He thought. _It's for Ollie! Why is she looking at me like that?_

Eventually, she nodded. "You're right, but he's going to grieve Dinah as well. Who will comfort him?"

Barry's breath caught in his throat. "I'm going to be there for both of them," he promised. "I'll do whatever needs to be done, and when Ollie's stable, I'll send him to you."

"Mom, Dad, stop fighting," Ollie ground out, bitterly. "I'm right here."

"I'm telling him to beam down to Central City," Barbara said, ignoring their interaction. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. "Let's hope he has good news for us."

"Did Clark and J'onn not come with him?" Ted asked. Michael was still seething, upset at being perceived as a traitor.

Her eyebrows raised. "No, but I'm going to try and get through to John and Shayera again. If if doesn't break their cover, they really need to be present for this."

"And what about Ted and Michael?" Ollie spat. "Are we really keeping them on the line for this?"

"Innocent until proven guilty," Koriand'r spoke up. "Isn't that what your race says?"

"We also say, 'an eye for an eye," Ollie told her, glaring mutinously into the computer screen.

"Hal's on the planet," Barbara announced.

Barry glanced over at Ollie. "I'll pick him up. Stay here. _And stop yelling at Booster and Beetle,_ " he whispered, for Ollie's ears alone. _"Until we can figure out what to do._ "

Before Ollie could respond, Barry was out the door, down the street, and several miles downtown, towards the landing site of the beam. The world blurred around him, yet it was all crystal clear to him. In less than a minute he saw Hal flying towards him, a grim expression on his own face.

"Hal!" Barry called out, and Hal rocketed down to Earth. He didn't slow his descent, so Barry staggered back when his best friend flew himself down into a tight hug.

Hal's voice was low, raspy, and utterly relieved. "Jesus, Bar, thank god you're ok. When I saw Oracle's face, I assumed the worst."

Barry's stomach flipped, and his mouth went dry. For a moment he gripped him back, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. Something warm uncurled in his stomach at Hal's raw emotion, as well as the presence and power of him. They were at war, however, and he was about to deliver terrible news that would hurt him badly, so he bit back the physical relief at seeing Hal again, and pulled back out of the hug.

"Carol's all right," he said, starting with what he figured Hal's biggest worry would be.

"And?" Hal's eyes searched his, trying to determine who _wasn't._

"We've got to get back to Ollie," he said instead. "He needs you."

Hal gripped his forearm. "Barry, I need you to tell me."

Barry closed his eyes against Hal's earnestness. When he opened them again, his expression was resolute. "Hal, I— I . . . I'm so sorry. Bruce, Helena, and Dinah just died."

Hal hugged Ollie for three minutes straight when they got back to Barry's house. Hal muttered lowly in Ollie's ear, and Barry assumed it was something comforting until Ollie pulled back, with an upset look on his face.

"No, of course I didn't—wait, why are you asking me _that?_ Are you fucking testing me?" He asked, incredulously. Barry stepped closer, worried he might have to intervene.

"Yes," Hal said flatly. "I'm gonna test everyone, Ol. If it's any consolation, you passed. You're you."

Barry frowned. Hal hadn't tested _him._ Not unless he knew Barry by the physicality of a hug, sputtered, and Hal turned to the monitor, where everyone had waited for him. Tim and Damian had come back, accompanied by a grim-faced Alfred Pennyworth, holding a dozing toddler in his arms.

Barry had completely forgotten Michael Wilson had survived until that moment.

"I've got bad news, worse news, and then maybe some middling news," Hal began. "Bad news is that we've got a swat team of magical, shape-shifting aliens on the planet. Worse news is that they've been here for at least eight months, maybe more, and will have had a chance to infiltrate our ranks." He sighed. "Middling news is that Clark and J'onn and the entire Green Lantern Corps are onto them. If we can stop this first wave here, the Corps can help keep the second wave from setting up shop."

"We already know all this!" Ollie yelled. He stabbed his finger at the monitor. "Bruce and Helena and Dinah just gave their _lives_ for that information! They've got at least two inside agents, and I'm pointing fingers at Beetle and Booster."

"They wouldn't be Beetle and Booster if they were shapeshifters," Carol pointed out, wearing a pinched expression.

"No, they would not," Hal agreed. "And before this becomes a witch hunt, I've thought of a way to test for this."

"Oh?" Barbara leaned forward.

"DNA testing," he said. "As long as they're human, they're safe."

Everyone in the Batcave froze. "No," Roy said. "Kori is not the fucking traitor!"

"I don't believe he's saying that she is," Barbara said. "Continue, Lantern."

Hal took a deep breath. "It has to do with their magical pulse. You know about that, right? Drives all mages crazy, and killed off all the aliens? Makes the Iconoclasts impossible to kill? It's keyed to human and Ikonian DNA, so any being with even a little of either DNA _cannot_ be targeted."

"Oh," Koriand'r breathed, slumping in relief. "That _is_ why. I had wondered . . ."

As Roy slung an arm around her waist, Barry leaned over to Hal and explained. "She's pregnant. It's Roy's. Is that enough?"

Hal nodded. "Appa was pretty sure all that was needed was a tiny amount, so that's why Superboy's safe, but not Supergirl or Miss Martian."

"Then why can't we find him?" Carol asked. "Wouldn't Superboy be useful right now?"

"They probably did him in another way," Roy muttered lowly.

Hal hesitated for a moment before continuing, "As I was saying, the pulse also targets and weakens all magic that is not Ikonian. So if they're still shapeshifting slash using their magic, they have to have at least some Ikonian DNA left. If we test everybody for DNA and something shows up that's not human, or you know, whatever Kori is, we should be able to isolate who the spies are."

Barry's blood ran cold. "Wait a minute. Shayera's alive too. Undercover, but she definitely survived the pulse."

"She's not pregnant too, is she?" Roy muttered, calmer now that Kori was no longer in danger. "What, with the way she and John Stewart were carrying on, it's totally possible."

"What?" Barry asked, as his stomach dropped. "She and John are . . . they were . . .?"

"Why do you think she went undercover to protect him?" Roy asked. "What?" He asked, when half those left in the meeting eyed him in disbelief. "You mean no one else picked up on that? I'm not even part of the _League_ and I knew that."

Barry closed his eyes. Shit on a stick, how had he missed that? No wonder she hadn't gone for his half-hearted flirting. God, he was so embarrassed. He'd never have done anything if he'd known she was into John!

He'd have never done anything _period_ if it hadn't been for the sinking feeling that if he didn't try to find a woman soon, he'd start _appreciating_ people that he should never, ever have noticed in the first place . . .

"We have to find out," Barbara ordered. "And we all will undergo testing."

"How do we know it's going to be a fair test?" Ted asked, which, considering Ollie and Roy's animosity towards him, was a fair question.

"Because Hal will go first, with me in attendance," Barbara said. "Once we're both clear we can alternate overseeing the tests. I'll contact Dr. Leslie Thompkins and see if she can assist us."

"Where's it gonna be?" Jason asked.

"Gotham," Barbara said. "The majority of us are already here. And all throughout, no matter what, we need to continue with the evacuation of Chicago."

"Wait, what?" Hal asked. "Somebody's gotta fill me in on that."

"I assumed Arrow and Flash would do so," Barbara said. "The rest of us . . . I think we some time to grieve, and continue the evacuation procedures. I will contact you all individually with separate times and locations for the DNA testing, while I try to determine how badly we've been compromised.

"Other than that I reiterate: go nowhere alone. Contact at least three members of the League if a situation arises and you are needed beyond your usual sphere. As soon as we isolate the traitors we can all breathe more easily, but Chicago still needs to be evacuated, Shazam found, and the Ikons stopped." Her breath caught. "Stay safe, everyone. Try and get some sleep. We'll reconvene tomorrow."

One by one, the monitors flickered off. Blue Beetle and Booster Gold's were among the first. Ollie grabbed Hal's arm and jabbed his finger at the screen in an accusatory manner.

"It's _them._ I know it's them. Who the hell else could it be?"

Hal glanced at Barry quickly, as if making sure he was still there. Then he turned back to Ollie. "Slow down and tell me from the beginning. Can you do that?"

"I'll make some coffee," Barry said, and sped off towards the kitchen. They were going to need it. Between Ollie's grief and the time it would take to fill Hal in, it was going to be a long night.

...

...

...

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 8:16 AM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

 **...**

It was light that woke him. Filtering in through Barry's blinds, a shaft of morning sunlight lay right across his face. It pulled Hal from the two and a half hours of sleep he'd managed, after Ollie had raged and then sobbed himself into an uneasy slumber.

Hal blinked the sleep from his eyes, wincing at the gritty feel. _Sleepy seeds_ , he thought, half-remembering his mother had called them that, a long time ago when he was a little boy and things were still good. He glanced over at the two other occupants of Barry's ridiculously large couch. Ollie lay in the middle, and he was the only one who managed to get horizontal during the evening. He clutched a pillow, rather than laying his head on it. His head lay near Hal's thigh, and tufts of fluffy blond hair poked up everywhere.

Barry was on Ollie's far side, sitting upright with his feet on the coffee table, just like Hal. His mouth had fallen slack while he slept, and even in sleep he looked exhausted. He also looked ten years older than when Hal had left, and still Hal couldn't find fault with him. Barry had stayed with them for hours as Hal and Ollie had gone through the early stages of mourning Dinah, although Hal's grief could never equal Ollie's. Hal was pretty sure that Barry and Ollie didn't even like each other all that much, but still Barry had fallen asleep with his hand on Ollie's ankle, comforting and anchoring him in one simple gesture.

Hal watched them sleep, and was filled with a sense of peace and contentment so strong, yet so at odds with the shadow war they were embroiled in, that he almost couldn't make sense of it. It should sicken him, to feel this way when so many of their friends had died. Dinah, Patrick, Helena, shit, even goddamn _Bruce_ was gone, but he knew that at his core, this was all he needed. He had his purpose, he had people to protect, and he had friends that he loved.

 _It was also probably in response to losing Dinah_ , Hal thought as he carefully extricated himself from the couch. After a night of grief, anything would be a relief in comparison. Waking exhausted on the couch after the worst sleepover any of them had ever attended was going to be better than the immediate punch of losing someone they loved. The good feeling would fade as the day went on, and then Hal would no longer blame himself.

For now, he had work to do.

"Going somewhere?" Barry whispered, cracking an eye open.

Hal winced. "Oracle and I are meeting for the DNA testing. She said she'd schedule the two of you together, first. Can I leave him with you for a couple hours?"

Barry nodded. "As soon as we're tested I'm going to help him evacuate Chicago. I'd focused on helping Carol, before, but we both need something to throw ourselves into. You gonna be back, or . . . ?"

Hal shrugged. "I don't know yet. Depends on what Oracle needs me to do. I'll try, Bar." His hand flopped awkwardly down to Barry's shoulder. He had to fight off the sleepy impulse to rest it on his head instead, to card his fingers through Barry's short, blond hair.

Barry looked up at him with eyes bluer than the fucking ocean, and Hal needed to get gone, already.

"Stay safe," Hal murmured. "And if Ollie gets suicidal ideas, tie him up again."

"I heard that," Ollie muttered from down the couch.

Barry reached up and pressed his hand against Hal's. Just for a moment, but it still made his stomach clench. "You too," he said. "Grab something to eat before you go. And call Carol. She's uh." Barry swallowed and looked down for a moment. "She'll want to hear from you."

At any other time, Ollie would have made a cutting remark about Barry being a good little housewife, looking out for his big, manly husband. As it was, Ollie burrowed his face down into the couch, and said nothing at all as Hal slapped together a ham and cheese sandwich, and then made his way to the Watchtower teleporter in Central city.

...

...

...

" _Hal._ "

Hal winced. Whenever Carol answered the phone in _that_ tone of voice, he knew to start scrambling. Time to adopt the solicitous boyfriend persona. "Hey, Carol. How are you feeling?"

"Better than Oliver," she admitted. "How is he holding up?"

Hal looked down at the ground as he flew by. It was very, very different piloting a plane and piloting himself, but he'd like to think he was good enough to do that and talk to his girlfriend on the phone at the same time. Also, in case the conversation went really badly, he could always say he dropped the phone, which was not something that he could claim when he still worked for her.

"He's not good. I don't know how he'll take this in the long run. Barry's with him. Oh, he said to say he won't be much help today—he's gonna' stick with Ollie to make sure . . . well. You know."

"I completely understand," she said. And she did. It was one of the reasons Hal cared for her, even though her ability to be logical with every single thing except their relationship drove him a little insane. "And you? I know Dinah was one of your closest friends. I'm so sorry, Hal."

"Yeah," he said. He could never come close to articulating how much it fucking hurt that brave, intelligent, sassy-as-all-hell Dinah Lance was dead. Who would smack sense into Ollie, now that she was gone? Who would smack sense into him?

"It hasn't hit me yet," he admitted. "Not really. But it can't. There's no time, and too much to do."

"Don't I know it," she growled. "We've only managed to evacuate about 350,000 people from Chicago. That's too few. If the weapon is primed to go off on the 28th, we're not going to get everyone out in time. We're not going to get _half."_ She continued, getting more upset as she went. "Everyone is panicking, and it's making our jobs so much harder. We've had three riots in the past hour, and that's just in the Loop! Ollie's working the south side of Chicago, and I can't imagine how he's getting on down there. It's ridiculous!

"They're afraid of dying, Carol," Hal reminded her. "And they're not in the military. They're not trained for this."

"Not trained to form orderly lines? We learn that in kindergarten, Hal!"

Hal took a deep breath, and swerved around a high-rise building. He was in Gotham proper now, and it was only a few more minutes until he reached the Clocktower. "What's this really about, Carol? I know you're under a lot of strain, but—"

"I want to see you," she cut in. Her voice was tired. "Just, I want . . . Can't we do this in person?"

Carol had the worst timing, sometimes. Like right now. "I can't, sorry. I'm meeting with Oracle. I don't have time."

"Just for five minutes, Hal. I just—I need . . ."

"Carol, when all this is over, I can give you all the attention you need. Right now I've got a job to do," he said. It was a little harsh, but he was in full on Green Lantern mode. Besides, he was kind of a dick at the best of times. She should probably know that by now.

"Fine," she said, with an edge to her voice. "We can do this over the phone. I thought your 'promise' was to Barry, but he didn't know anything about it. Who was the promise to? Or were you making that up?"

Hal nearly dropped the phone for real. Not only was that the worst conversational segue in the history of ever, she'd _talked_ to Barry about that? This was the last thing he needed. Hal tried his hardest to keep Carol Ferris and Barry Allen in completely different areas of his head, let alone his life. For all the ways they overlapped inside of him he needed to keep them disparate.

Because otherwise he was fucked.

"You—you talked to him about that?"

"He doesn't know what's wrong with you either!" She exclaimed. "I didn't think we'd see eye to eye on that, but there it is. Why won't you marry me, Hal?"

Hal took a deep breath, trying to calm his thoughts. He could still play this off. He could still come out relatively unscathed, as long as he only told part of the truth. "I promised Iris on her deathbed," he admitted, in a low, quiet voice. "I can't go back on that." _And I promised myself,_ he thought. _The night we duked it out in the corn field._

"But he understands!" Carol entreated him. "Wait until he talks about it with you—"

And that was all he could take. "Carol, this isn't the time. I'm at the Clocktower and I gotta begin the DNA testing. Your time is in the afternoon, right? I'll see you then."

There was a long moment of silence. _She's piiiiiisssssssed,_ Hal thought. _I'm boned._

" . . . I'll talk to Barry, and then to you," he said, knowing he'd rather take an off-world mission for the rest of his life than do just that. "It'll all work out. I promise."

"I love you," she said, and it was pointed. _This is what I can do,_ she was saying. _Why can't you do it too?_

"Love you too," he said, and then he hung up. He flew in for a landing at the Clocktower hangar and took a deep breath. Then another. And another. _Shit,_ he thought. _Shit and shit and shit._ He had to come into the meeting with a clear head. He wasn't just Hal Jordan, after all. He was a goddamned Green Lantern, and one of the last living superheroes on planet Earth.

Let his secrets come back to haunt him later. For now, he had work to do.

...

...

...

An hour and a half later, he stood beside Oracle as Dr. Leslie Thompkins, the venerable, grey-haired, Wayne family physician presented her findings on both his and Barbara's DNA.

"Congratulations, you're both human," she said drily. "Not even a meta-gene to complicate the results. Can I hope that all the tests will be that straightforward?"

"The next will be," Hal said. "I've met with Barry and Ollie and I know they're human. Although Barry is a first-generation meta."

Leslie waved him off. "That's an easy enough gene to map. Anything challenging?"

"We will have a couple aliens for you to test," Barbara said. "But only one today. Non-Ikonian, obviously. She claims she's pregnant."

Dr. Leslie pursed her lips. "The pregnancy will be a welcome change, and easy enough to test for. But if I don't have a template DNA on file, it might take a while to isolate all the strands. We'd better save her for last, at least if you want to clear as many humans as possible, first."

Oracle glanced over at Hal. "We . . . have suspicions as to who the Ikons may be masquerading as. I want you to be very careful around Theodore Kord and Michael Carter, Leslie. If they come in and everything is fine, please tell me right away. Otherwise, I don't want you alone in the room with them."

Dr. Leslie gave her a distinctly unimpressed look. "If the Ikons are dangerous enough to destroy Metropolis and murder Bruce Wayne, being careful is not going to make a damned bit of difference. I'm going to do my job, Barbara, and I will do it without fear."

"Just be careful," Hal reiterated. "We've all lost enough. We can't lose anyone else."

Now Dr. Leslie turned her unimpressed gaze onto him. "I'm always careful. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got the next set of tests to run. Your friends should be here any minute."

"We'll be in the computer room if you need us," Barbara said.

Hal's stomach grew cold. They had listened to the Des Plaines recording while they waited for Leslie to finish with her results, and only Barbara's stony resolve kept him from breaking down. What they had done to Dinah was horrific, and her last words . . .

"I can't listen to that recording again, Oracle," he said.

Barbara shook her head, looking queasy. "Once was enough. We have other things to discuss." She said nothing else until they reached the computer room.

It was a long, awkward walk down the hallway. One of Oracle's wheels needed oiling, and Hal couldn't stop thinking about how for all their dissimilarities, during their last living moments, both Bruce and Dinah had taken the opportunity to make their final goodbyes. What would he have said, were he in that position? And how might it affect those left behind?

As soon as the doors sealed behind them, Oracle wheeled to a stop, and fixed him with a serious expression. "You know, in about a third of my projections, I considered the Flash as having been compromised," she began without preamble.

Hal's temper flared. " _What?"_

Barbara held up a hand. "You should know that I no longer think he is the most likely candidate. Nor did Bruce agree with me at the time. But his behavior over the last few interviews was erratic, and I had to consider all the options." She licked her lips. "I also considered Damian. To be even more honest, I still do."

Hal tried to calm himself. Tried to remind himself that Barbara was right, and that someone had to keep a level head about all this. It had all fallen on her shoulders, and he couldn't begrudge her that.

"What about the rest of the ex-Robin club?" He asked, to get his mind off of Barry as an Ikon.

She shook her head. "I'd be surprised if it was Tim. And it can't be Richard or Jason, unless it's both. Two spies in one household would be too obvious, and thus dangerous. If one of them is in the Manor, it'll be Damian."

Hal didn't ask why Barbara was so confident about both Jason and Dick. For now, he was going to assume she had access to some knowledge that he didn't, and move on. The Waynes were full of secrets, after all, and Hal wanted no part of the inner workings of the Bat family hierarchy.

"Roy and Kori? He asked, moving down the list.

Barbara shrugged. "If Starfire's pregnant, that answers the big question of why she survived the pulse, and I'm assuming that she or Jason would notice if Arsenal were acting oddly. I think that's what we need to be looking out for. Those who are on the fringes, and isolated enough that moments of uncharacteristic behavior won't be picked up on."

"Like Booster and Beetle."

Barbara hesitated. "And the Flash. Since you've been gone, he hasn't been around much."

Hal narrowed his eyes at her. "Yeah well, neither have John and Shayera. I'm not sure why they aren't the first suspects. They're undercover—who's to say they haven't been taken over by the shapeshifters?"

Barbara rested her head in her hand. "Now that we know the Ikons are shapeshifters, yes, they are under suspicion. Before we assumed it was a matter of personal integrity, and perhaps even magical compulsion. Bruce and I considered them strong enough to stand up to that. Now that they may no longer be themselves . . ."

"It's either Michael and Ted, or John and Shayera," Hal summed up.

"Or Damian and Barry," Barbara said. "Until we know for certain, those are the six I'd watch the most closely. I'm not going to take my eyes off of anyone now, however, even though I know you're human."

"Fair enough," Hal agreed. If she was going to be eying him askance as well, he didn't mind her paranoia about Barry as much. "Now why don't we talk about Superboy, and how nobody knows he's holding down the Watchtower."

Oracle sighed. "Tim knows, but that's it. Kon got out just before the pulse. He was poisoned, and whoever did it didn't realize Bruce and Clark have secret backdoors built into the Watchtower, keyed to their DNA. Kon made it to the teleporter, and it let him in. Until we know for sure who the spies are, he's being held in reserve. Bruce and I had hoped to find a way to use him against Luthor. We thought he could turn him away from the Ikons, but that only works if Luthor is still alive. If he's been taken over by the Ikons . . ."

"I think it's safe to say he, Ra's, and Bane are no longer the villains we know and love," Hal said with a hint of sarcasm. "And according to what Barry and Ollie have been telling me, neither is Shazam."

Barbara sighed. "We don't know what was done to him. Nor how he managed to break free of the Ikon's control over all Earth's magic. Technically, we don't even know if he's alive. We're hoping he is because Constantine needs him to do . . . whatever he did, again. Either way, we need to find him before anyone else does."

"And we're sure he's not a shapeshifter? That would explain his out-of-nowhere killing spree nicely."

"It's hard to imagine John Constantine being wrong about something like that, but that's something we could check. Shazam languished in the Manor for days, and Alfred did a bunch of medical exams on him. Definitely took blood, maybe tissue samples. We could give it to Leslie and check."

"But you don't think it could be him?"

Oracle shook her head. "He was still using his magic, up until he was taken over. If the Ikons are shapeshifters with their own brand of magic, there's no reason to believe they can use Earth-based magic, especially because of the weapon that makes all Earth-born mages crazy. Shazam definitely went crazy by the end, and he was coughing up a lot of blood. That's hard to fake. I'd guess it really was him."

Hal nodded, going with it for now. A DNA test would be more definitive, but he'd take Oracle at her assurance. "He's not gonna be able to come back from this. If he really killed that many people . . ."

"He'll do what he needs to do, Lantern. He's Shazam."

"If you say so. Who's looking for him?"

"Tim and Kon-El. When they find him, Kon may be the only person who can go after him. Or you. If he were sane, Dinah might have been able to get through to him, but . . ."

"Shit," Hal said, unable to think of the might have beens. "So let me get this straight. We have at least two Ikons impersonating our friends, and three more running around in Ra's, Luthor's, and Bane's bodies. We have to evacuate all of Chicago by tomorrow, and also find Shazam, who may or may not be sane, evil, or alive."

"That's about it."

"Well let's get working," Hal said. "Tell me what needs to be done."

...

...

...

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Khandaq, 1:57 PM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

All around him was desert. Heat blistered his skin, sand bit his feet, and wind scoured his body. He had been without food and water for more than 24 hours now, and he had no idea if the forces that had controlled his body before that had thought to feed or hydrate him.

Billy Batson, the freed hero Shazam, did not care.

He had gone this long without eating before, but never in this circumstance. He mentally added it to the list of other, far more terrible things he had never done: he had never before betrayed his colleagues. Neither had he left his friends to fight on their own. His magic, while once stolen, had never been twisted in his grip.

He had never killed tens of thousands of people, before.

Billy's eyes stung, but he could not cry. The desert sucked all the moisture out of him, or was that his grief? He felt hollow, like he was a tiny fleck of dirt dirtying the enormous cavern of the world. It did not matter that he had not chosen to kill those people, had not even been aware when it happened. His body had done it. His body, and his power. If he had never been empowered by the wizard, it never would have happened. If he had never been born . . .

Pain overwhelmed him, and Billy closed his eyes. He'd thought the grief was worse when he came back to awareness, somewhere in the middle of the Porcupine Mountains State Park. It was the first time he'd been fully in control of himself for the last 24 hours. The memories his subconscious had blocked came rushing down, and horror overtook him. It was too much, too quickly. Coupled with the physical strain the Iconoclasts' magic had forced him through, his body and mind failed him. He collapsed to the forest floor, and fell unconscious.

That had been eight hours ago. Eight hours of consciousness, of reliving snippets of the pain and devastation he had caused. So many were dead because of him. So many have lost their sense of safety, they homes, their jobs, their friends, their families . . . He was as bad as the worst supervillains he had ever faced. So what if it hadn't been his choice? Because of him it had still happened!

Billy remembered how the wizard Shazam had saved him, had come to him in the deepest, darkest reaches of his subconscious and gave him the key to unlock the prison doors of the Iconoclast magic. Yet the wizard was far from him now, and Billy could not summon up the energy to search for him. He could not summon up the energy to do much of anything. Grief and guilt and depression clouded his entire being, and it was hard to think clearly, if he was thinking at all.

All he knew was that he couldn't go back. No one would ever forgive him. He would never forgive himself. He could not even muster up the resolve that had carried him through his life— _I will not die, I am not done._ Now, with every step he took in the scorching desert, a new resolve began to form.

 _I am tired. I want it to be over._

 **...**

 **...**

 **...**

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Clocktower, 2:32 PM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

When Dick was little and still lived in the circus, before the great tragedy that shaped his life, his father had told him about the Dreaming Tree. It was an old story, one passed down from their Romani ancestors about a tree that dreamt, and the creatures that relied on it to live. The day-birds that lived in its branches sang songs that reflected its dreams, as did the chattering of the chipmunks, and the hoot of the nighttime owl. The snakes in the grass slithered paths that reflected the wisdom of the tree's dreams, and the insects that trundled through the earth next to its roots knew all the tree's secrets. Even the larger woodland creatures that rested in its shade were influenced by the dreams of the wondrous tree. Once they rested in the strange tree's shade, they never sought out another, knowing that all trees in the forest were inferior to this one.

And the tree was happy, for what the tree dreamt of most fondly was to never be alone. Let the entire world surround it and it would love them all; giving up the best of itself simply to keep those it cared about happy, healthy, and safe.

Dick's father told many, silly little stories about the tree to him, all designed to appeal to his young son. His bright, chirping, inquisitive son, whom his mother had fondly dubbed _Little Robin._

Dick had never told anyone the stories of the Dreaming Tree because they were too painful. He had almost told Bruce once, but he'd been unable to go through with it. Back when he was 16, on one of his last gigs as Robin, they had just put Dr. Fries back in Arkham Asylum. He'd been ranting and raving about the honor of his deceased wife, Nora, and Dick had been taken over with a nigh overwhelming impulse to tell Bruce everything.

 _This is a story Papa told me,_ he would have said. _It's about you. Well, I mean, it's about a tree, but you're the tree. And I'm the day-bird, obviously, Batgirl is the squirrel, and Commissioner Gordon is the owl. Catwoman is the snake, the villains are the insects . . . and your superhero colleagues in other cities are the woodland creatures that cannot stay away from you, not only because you are the freaking Batman, but also because your dream is_ all _of their dreams, and it's of a world that's safer and saner than the one we live in._

Now that Bruce was gone, Dick wished he had told him. Standing in the Clocktower with Damian at his side, awaiting the DNA test results that would reveal them to be nothing other than what they appeared, he wished he had told Bruce many things. He almost wished he could tell Damian, now, if only to establish a link between them. _My father told me a story once,_ he'd say. _And it's what made me want to fight at your father's side._

But he did not. Damian wouldn't understand, not in his current emotional state. The youngest Robin had shut down after hearing the Des Plaines transmission, and refused to do anything other than eat, sleep, patrol, and spar. After their first practice bout ended in him nearly murdering Tim again, only Jason was allowed to spar with him. Alfred had insisted on being in attendance. Dick hadn't understood why until Alfred had begun crying during their second spar held late last night; quiet, reserved tears that unnerved Dick more than open wailing.

Needless to say, neither of them were sparring much anymore. Even Damian could not stand Alfred's sorrow, and so he had taken up training on his own, spending all the hours not on patrol in the gym, pushing himself to his limits.  
Damian's inability to accept Dick's comfort wasn't the only reason he couldn't tell him now. Barbara was in the room with them, waiting alongside them to learn that they were, in fact, who they claimed to be. While she was amazing and brilliant and the best damned backup a superhero could ever dream of, her soul was shot through with iron, rather than that which might appreciate romantic imagery. She also looked as if she hadn't slept in two weeks, so she might not understand the nuance in Dick's message. If even she did not, what chance did he have at getting through to Dami?

No, it was better to say nothing at all. He'd wait for the right time, and if that didn't work, he'd just have to try, try again.

"How long will this take?" Damian asked quietly, without inflection. Dick never thought the day would come when he missed Dami's entitled arrogance. He'd have that back in a heartbeat if the reason for it was Bruce's resurrection.

"She should be almost done," Babs answered for him, tapping away at her laptop. She had only come down to supervise the last 10 minutes of their meeting with Dr. Leslie. Apparently she wasn't very worried about them. "Then the two of you are out to Chicago?"

"To help stop riots, yeah," Dick answered her. "Jay's coming too. Roy and Kori are keeping an eye on Gotham. Tim said he was helping you, but he'd take the Bat suit out from time to time."

 _Because I can't,_ went unsaid. _Not yet._ _Even though he left it to me._

"Hmmm," Babs said, tapping away at her laptop.

"Unless you need something?" Dick offered weakly. Things had been awkward between them for the past couple of years, but never when they were in costume. They were better than that, no matter the disappointments they suffered as Dick and Barbara. Even if the last one—the one that was absolutely still happening, even when the world burned down all around them, so help him God—had been a doozy.

"No, I just . . ." She trailed off, glancing over at Damian. "Let's just wait for Leslie."

As if on cue, Dr. Leslie chose that moment to sail into the room. "Sorry for the wait," She said, tapping something on her tablet. "Good news. Richard Grayson and Damian Wayne are both human. As is everyone else I've tested today. The only one left is your pregnant alien friend."

Dick pretended he didn't see the way Barbara's body slackened just slightly in relief.

Dr. Leslie glanced up from her tablet to look directly at Barbara. "I also managed to run the swab sample that was mailed in."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Was it contaminated? He had to ship it quickly."

Dr. Leslie shook her head. "Surprisingly clean. You may pass congratulations onto Mr. Stewart, he is completely human as well. Now if you don't mind me, I'm going to go prep the room. It's been awhile since I've worked with a pregnant woman," she muttered to herself before she left the room.

Barbara frowned. "That doesn't make sense," she murmured.

"What, that Dr. Leslie doesn't normally work with pregnant woman?" Dick raised an eyebrow. "She is the family physician, and it's not like we've been awash in pregnancies."

"No," she replied, annoyed. "The swab test. I thought for sure it would come back contaminated."

You thought _John Stewart_ was a spy _?_ " Dick asked, appalled.

Barbara sighed roughly. "Both Booster and Beetle have been tested. It's not them, Richard. I thought . . . well, shit. This just goes from bad to worse."

"What do you mean?" Damian asked.

Barbara bit her lip. "Shayera has been unable to send a sample. Until she can, she can't be exonerated, and I've had to cut her from the communications links."

Dick frowned, beginning to see where this was going. "Why can't we get ahold of her?"

"She's down in Mexico hunting down the supplier for Venom. We hope it will provide a connection to how the Ikons are supplying their own products, and how they augment them with other poisonous compounds. Even if she does send it today, it will still be several days before it gets here."

"So we don't know if it's her," Damian said, completely unphased.

"There's another thing," Barbara admitted, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Carol Ferris didn't turn up for her test."

Dick's first thought was of a rampaging Green Lantern. "Shit," he breathed.

"That isn't a surprise either," Damian said, in a clipped, uncaring tone. "She's in an excellent position to operate as an alien spy. As she's no longer Star Sapphire, she doesn't have a power or even enhanced ability to fake. She is also somewhat removed from the community as a whole. Save for Green Lantern, she doesn't associate with many of us. If they took her after he left for his off-world mission, it would be difficult for any of us to spot her as an imposter."

Dick didn't know if he was dismayed at the callous turn of Damian's thoughts, or grateful that Damian was thinking at all. He was 100% thankful that Hal wasn't in the room, however. Green Lantern was kind of one-track minded, and, while surprisingly sensitive to the few people he was close to, was not the most subtle hero of the bunch.

"You thought _Carol_ was the spy?" He asked Damian incredulously.

"No," Damian replied. "I thought it would be John Stewart and Shayera Hall. It would appear I'm wrong about one of them. Carol is a sensible option, and I accede that I had judged her innocence too quickly."

"She may not be guilty, Dami!" Dick argued. "Her lack of powers makes her an easy target. They could have kidnapped her!"

"What the point of that? Apart from her role in Ferris Aircraft, which someone else could easily take over, she's worthless." Damian pointed out.

"She's not _worthless,"_ Dick argued. "Think about it this way: losing her now would destroy Hal, just like losing Br—just like we're already suffering," he finished lamely, knowing both Barbara and Damian would know what he meant to say.

"She was fitted with a tracking device," Barbara admitted. "As were Helena and I. It's still active, so I know that she's alive. I know where she is, Richard. I just don't know if we should go after her."

Damian scowled, clenching his big hands into fists. "Another trap. Is that all the Ikons know? They should just face us and have done with it!"

"Not until we tear down their magical weapon," Barbara reminded him. "Until then, they're invincible. We need to use the time they've given us. They may think they're playing with us, but we can use it to formulate a plan."

"What if we're wrong?" Dick argued. "What if Carol was kidnapped and we leave her to her torture and death? What the hell do you think Green Lantern is going to do with that information?"

"We're not keeping this from him," Barbara said tiredly, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. "We will simply tell him when we tell everyone else."

"Oh, yeah, that's gonna go over great," Dick muttered.

"Where is she?" Damian asked. "Let me guess. Chicago?"

Barbara said nothing, and he harrumphed. "I'm not going to do anything with that information. I think she's a spy. Jordan does not, so you'd best have an acceptable lie ready for him."

"She's in DC," Barbara admitted. "For a ten minute period, she was in Wonder Woman's apartment."

"That . . . doesn't bode well," Dick admitted. "Unless they dragged her through it just because they knew we were tracking her?"

"You and your excuses," Damian muttered. "Always trying to make make everyone redeemable. Ferris is not. Neither is Todd. When will you learn?"

A flare of anger made him grit his teeth. He wanted nothing more than to yell at Damian, to tell him how little he knew of the world and of the people in it. "Not the time, Damian."

"I say we sit on it for now," Barbara decided. "We can't risk Lantern flying off in a rage when he's all that's keeping Arrow from losing it completely, and we need both their help with the evacuation. After that's done, one way or the other . . . I'll tell everyone, and we'll put it up to a vote."

Dick sucked in a breath through his teeth. "She'll be dead by then. You're leaving her to die—"

"Unless she's the spy," Damian reminded him.

"If that happens, Lantern is going to kill you," Dick finished.

"No he's not," she said confidently. "He's going to be angry, but in time he'll understand."

"I'm just reiterating. Angry Green Lantern. _Furious_ Green Lantern. _"_

"Well, it's not like we don't know what to do with angry superheroes," Babs said, and it was the closest thing to a joke she had made in weeks. "If anything, Bruce would probably be proud of him."

...

...

...

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Clocktower, 2:49 PM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

Just outside the testing room, in earshot of Oracle, Nightwing, and Robin, two other superheroes lurked.

"So they've taken her to D.C. . . ."

Michael Carter looked over at his friend. "We're going after her, right? Saving the day, clearing our names, proving ourselves and Carol's loyalty?"

Ted Kord smiled grimly. "Hell yeah. Let me just turn the evacuation protocols over to my 2nd in command before we go . . ."

"All right," Michael said, flashing his pearly whites. "Let's go be big damn heroes."

...

...

...

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Washington, D.C., The White House, 3:00 PM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

At 3:00 PM, the President of the United States and his entire cabinet, including the Vice President, the White House Chief of Staff, and the Ambassador to the United Nations, sat down for a meeting. The docket could be broken down into three specific areas of concern: whether to request aid from the United Nations, whether to assist the superhero community in their evacuation of Chicago or to denounce it entirely, and how best to catch and kill the rogue superhero Shazam.

All three issues had been discussed before, but the situation had shifted enough to rehash. The Mayor of Chicago had elected to side with the superheroes, and was directing individuals to either K.O.R.D. Inc, Ferris Aircraft, or Queen Industries to evacuate. Additionally, several of the U.S.'s allies across the sea were offering aid on exceptional terms, and they had to discuss how much they would give to get some support. There was no word on Shazam, but the indiscriminate killing had ended, as well. The President was quietly hopeful that the situation had been resolved, one way or another. Others were not so sanguine.

None of the issues were ever resolved. At 3:34 PM, an explosion went off that killed every person in the room, instantly.

The news broke at 4:15 PM.

By 7:00 PM, a new President had been unanimously ushered into office.

...

...

...

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Washington, D.C., The White House, 7:47 PM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

Joseph "Lex" Luthor was inaugurated President with little fanfare. His vice-president was an older, more conservative member of the Democratic party, but he elected his cabinet from popular senators among both Republicans and Democrats, as if to say he had no need for traditional, partisan politics. He did elect three non-politicians to his cabinet: little-known Ray Ghulia headed the Department of State; Javier Bañe was given the Department of Homeland Security to run, and John Stewart, decorated war hero, was named Secretary of Defense.

Luthor's very first decision was to declare a state of emergency, a decision he explained during his Inaugural Address. Given from the confines of the Pentagon, rather than the sprawling White House lawn, it was succinct, to the point, and due to the breathless speed in which it occurred, there were no reporters present to interject with questions.

"This is no time for hesitation," he began. "Our country is at risk. Metropolis, that brave, beautiful city, is no more. I grieve the loss of it. It was my home, and the best one a man could ever ask for. But I take strength from its destruction. It is what fuels my resolve to protect the rest of our nation. The Iconoclasts, whatever their true nature, will not destroy any other cities. Not under our watch.

"Many of you have heard rumors that the Iconoclasts are not aliens at all, but human beings—misguided super 'heroes' who have turned to evil. I cannot confirm this at the moment, but there are some unsettling signs that point this is true. From Patrick O'Brian's—Plastic Man's—attempt on my Chief of Security, Javier Bañe's life; to William Batson AKA Shazam's murderous rampage through the US, we have proof enough that some now stand against the American people.

"These could be isolated incidents. I do not want you to panic, nor to assume that all supers have joined forces with or even _become_ these mysterious 'Iconoclasts.' But there is one further account of terrorism I must address, particularly as it targets one of the largest and most prosperous cities in the United States.

"Residents of Illinois, take heart. Chicago is _not at risk._ Whatever codename 'Oracle' wants you to believe, you are completely safe. Stay in your homes and do not create a situation that could lead to panic, riots, and loss of life. We will not let what happened in Metropolis happen in Chicago. We have created a defensive weapon for this very purpose, and if a single superpowered being—Iconoclast or _not_ —steps foot into Chicago with dire purpose, they will be dealt with swiftly, severely, and without mercy.

"Thank you all, and God bless America."

...

...

...

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor, 8:39 PM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

Dinner at Wayne Manor that evening was subdued. While Kori did not know what an average dinner at the Wayne family table was like, she assumed that it could not be like this. The current lack of energy had to be from the loss of Batman, hanging over all of them like a shroud; particularly as it was why they were all sitting around the table in the first place. Alfred had called for this family dinner to be held in his honor, and as a chance for all to make their goodbyes.

Roy and Kori were invited as guests, and also to keep Jason from flipping his shit and killing them all, at least, according to Roy. Knowing what she did of her boys, Kori found his crude explanation likely. Jason had not come to terms with his strained relationship with his father figure in life, how much harder would it be to do so in death?

It was a motley assortment of individuals without Batman to hold them together. Damian sat at Alfred's left hand, ostensibly so that the aged butler's presence would keep the young firebrand calm. Dick sat to his right, and next to him, Tim. Jason was next, followed by Roy, Kori, and then tiny Michael Wilson, whose little legs swung in the air, far too short to reach the floor. He sat upon a stack of thick textbooks simply so he could reach the table.

Even he was not untouched by grief. She had awoken last night to his wails for his mother, who, in the nighttime hours, he could not but miss.

Kori watched the toddler, wondering if the life she carried inside her would look like him. Look up at her with the same absolute trust and devotion that he showed towards Alfred Pennyworth. She took Roy's hand. Whatever species their child was; whichever parent it favored, she would love it all the same. Fiercely, and without reserve, even though it would set her up for crippling weakness, as well. She would not hold herself back from it, no matter the pain in their lives.

Perhaps it was time to admit as much to her child's father, as well.

(It might also prove a fitting segue into another conversation that was long overdue: her people's cultural and psycho-emotional bonds . . . and how she could now track him effortlessly within a five-mile radius. That she could likely find him were he farther away from her than that, solely due to the strength of her feelings for him—transmuted by people's empathetic power—might make him nervous. How she was going to tell him all this was as of yet beyond her, but she might as well begin making headway now.

She could no longer be afraid of loving him. Not after this.)

They were halfway through their dinner of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and fresh vegetables when Alfred raised up his glass. Next to him, little Michael raised his sippy cup, watching Alfred expectantly, having learned it was best to follow his new guardian in all things.

"A toast," Alfred began. "To Bruce Wayne, the most frustrating and beloved charge I could have ever asked for . . . and to Batman and his legacy. May we be capable enough to see his mission through."

Kori glanced over at Jason, unsure if she should participate in the toast. No one else moved, and Jason did not meet her eye. He stared down at the table, teeth clenched. From the corner of her eye she could see Roy eyeing the exits. He was probably gauging how quickly he could reach his bow before Jason flipped the table over, attacked them en masse, or some other catastrophe befell them.

Perhaps she could offset violence? She raised her own glass, looking Alfred in the eye. "To Batman," she echoed. "One of the single greatest heroes this world has ever known."

Alfred dipped his head graciously at her.

Michael Wilson saw this as his cue. "Badman," his mispronounced. "He's _scary."_

Damian Wayne glared at the child, who took a drink from his sippy cup in response. The child's misunderstanding of the nature of the toast caused the mood to ice over more, until Tim Drake held his own cup aloft.

"To Bruce," he said quietly. "May we never let him down. May he be proud of what we do, and who we become."

Dick took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Kori frowned, moved with pity. He was trying to keep himself together for the sake of those at the table, but he was drowning in grief. Kori could feel so much of it, even though they were no longer romantically involved, and her heart throbbed with the echoes of his pain.

"To my father," Damian said, his voice clipped. "The greatest man on Earth. I will not disappoint you. I will not let anyone slander your name."

"To the man who brought this table together," Roy said diplomatically, a moment later. "And the man who's saved Gotham more times than I am years alive."

"We get it, you're old," Jason murmured, in a distinctly bitter voice. "Congratulations."

"As for you, Master Jason?" Alfred prompted.

Jason let out a long, deep sigh. Kori knew that even at his darkest moments he never wanted to let Alfred down. He felt the same for Barbara Gordon, and, to a lesser extent, Timothy and Damian. Dick was, of course, a whole category of his own . . . as had been Bruce Wayne.

 _Was he thinking of Bruce's last words to him?_ Kori wondered. _Of how he had thought of Jason at the last? How desperate he had been to understand him? To love him? To be loved in return?_

"To Bruce," Jason finally said, voice thick with emotion. "To . . . Bruce." If Kori had been moved in Dick's pain, now she was awash in Jason's. Had he felt less perhaps he could have managed more. As it was, Jason stood abruptly, pushing back from the table. He turned to leave the room, but Damian shot to his feet.

"That's all you can do?" He hissed. "That's all you can give to the man who saved you from a life on the streets? Gave you the power to fight at his side? The chance to be something more? _"_

"Master Jason's words are his own," Alfred warned him. "Leave him be."

"That's not all he gave me," Jason muttered darkly, and Kori was unsure if he meant it as censure, or twisted praise.

Damian's face twisted with rage. "You selfish bastard. You're a disgrace. He should never have picked you. He was a fool for thinking you were worthy of his legacy. You shouldn't even be here."

"You don't know jack shit about it, so why don't you take a seat and shut up," Jason said harshly. "Just stay the fuck out of this!"

"There's a three year old at the table—" Roy tried to intervene.

Damian sneered at him. "I know more than you think, Jason Todd. I know about the depths of depravity you lowered yourself to—"

"You know nothing about that!" Jason yelled.

"I know how you _are_ nothing!" Damian yelled back.

Before anyone could react, there was a butter knife in Jason's hand. Tim reached out to stop him, and Dick cried out.

"Jay! No!"

Both were too late. Jason wound up and flung the knife towards Damian Wayne's head. The silver knife hurtled toward the teenager, flashing in the light of the chandelier. Moments before it would penetrate his skull, Damian reached out and swatted it aside, sending it into the wall with such force that it quivered upon impact.

"Pathetic," he sneered. "Is that the best you can do?"

"No," Jason ground out. "But I'm not—shit. I can't . . ." He trailed off, looking helplessly towards Alfred before glancing quickly over at the door. "Fuck!" He cried out, before shoving back from the table, and charging out of the dining room.

Damian made to move after him, but Alfred stopped him with a gesture. "Are you in control of yourself, Master Damian?"

"Of course I am," he bit back.

"Then are you nothing but an attack dog?" Alfred challenged him. "Mindlessly gratifying your most immediate instincts?"

Damian eyed the door Jason had just ran through. The strain of keeping himself from chasing after him was so great he shuddered. "I am not," he finally said. "I . . . I apologize for his display."

"Then sit down. We are going to finish our dinner," Alfred commanded.

Tim glanced at Dick before standing up. "I'll go make sure he's ok. I'm done eating anyway. I'll be right back."

"Wait, no, I'll—" Dick said, but Tim was faster than he looked. The door was closing behind him before Dick could finish his sentence.

Roy nudged Dick's shoulder. "It's gonna be ok," he murmured. "Don't tell anybody, but now that he's done trying to kill all of you, Jay's pretty fond of Tim. I think he's one of the few people he calms down enough to listen to. Total big-brother complex, it's really heartwarming."

Kori watched the way Dick took Roy at his word, and her own heart warmed. She had been worried that her past relationship with Dick, or the history between them would keep him from reconnecting with Roy. It seemed that her worries were for nothing.

"You have still not said your toast, Master Richard," Alfred reminded him, after some time had passed in silence, save for the clink of their cutlery on their plates.

Dick barked out a laugh. "How can I? I can't put words to this. I—I . . ." He breathed out hotly. "I can't. It's Bruce. And I can't say any more than Jason can."

The door opened and Tim stuck his head back in. "Dick, will you spar with him? I don't think anybody's gonna get through to him until he's gotten his ass kicked."

" _Weakling,"_ Damian muttered.

" _That_ I can do," Dick said. He stood, but Alfred stopped him.

"Master Richard. Do not run away from this. We must say our goodbyes. Do not let Bruce live on as a ghost in your heart."

Kori thought that was sage advice, and her respect and admiration for the butler rose. He would have fit in nicely with her people. His wisdom was likely why he had done so well among his own.

Dick did not appear to share her sentiments. He turned back around, a miserable expression on his face. "To Bruce," he finally said, brokenly, but with determination. He stared up at the ceiling, unable to make eye contact with anyone as he continued, "May his dreams live on, even though the tree's branches have burned. May the animals mourn the loss of his shade. May the birds find a new tree to roost in, and the insects wither away with his roots."

After he finished, he slipped from the room. Silence reigned over the dinner table as Tim Drake retook his seat.

"Errr, the bird symbology is throwing me," Roy admitted. "Shouldn't it be bats? Don't they nest in caves, not trees?"

"I believe it may have something to do with Master Richard's Romani background," Alfred said quietly.

"Fuck!" Michael Wilson said. When everyone at the table looked at him in surprise—some more than others—his expression turned triumphant. "Fuck fuck fuck."

"Oh dear," Alfred muttered. "That came earlier than I'd hoped. "

Kori leaned over to the young boy. "Michael," she said gently. "Do you know what that word means?"

"Nope," Michael informed her. "But Mista Jason says it lots. Unca Dick, too!"

Kori shook her head. "That's the word we say when we don't want dessert after dinner."

Michael's eyes opened comically wide. "Nooo! I want dessert!"

"Then you must tell Mr. Alfred that you are sorry, and that you won't say it again."

Michael twisted around to face Alfred. "I'm sorry Unca Afred," he said, and his dark eyes seemed to glimmer with unshed tears. "Won't do it again."

"This is disgusting," Damian muttered. "Can't the child be the next victim?"

Tim glared at him. "What was that? You don't want dessert either?"

Roy leaned in a pecked her on the cheek. "Babe, you're a natural," he said, smilingly. "You're going to be a wonderful mother. Which is fortunate, because I hear that we're having a baby."

Alfred patted his lips with his napkin. "That's right, you had your prenatal test today. I assume all went well?"

"As far as we can tell," Kori admitted. Dr. Leslie hadn't done too many prenatal exams on women with alien biology, but their bodies were similar enough that she could proceed with many of the tests. "I'm about 10 weeks along. My hormones aren't exactly synced with a human female's, but the infant looks to be developing along the lines of what she would expect. She also checked for the paternity of the child, to ensure it was half-human, and therefore that I was not an Ikon shapeshifter."

She smiled at Roy. "Congratulations, my love. We have genetic evidence that you are, in fact, the father. Now everyone can stop teasing you about it."

Roy grinned back at her before taking her hand and kissing it.

"How will this affect your role in the war against the Ikons?" Alfred asked her. "I know that you've taken yourself out of the more violent skirmishes, but you're still patrolling Gotham?"

"Someone needs to," she said. "Particularly as everyone else is tied up in the evacuation effort."

"I still can't believe they've managed to evacuate 80% of the city," Roy said, shaking his head. "When do you think the weapon will go off?"

"They're to pull out by 11 tonight," Tim said. "In case the weapon goes off before midnight. We can't risk much later than that."

"What if the weapon doesn't go off?" Alfred asked. "What if we're wrong?"

"Then we look like fools at best, terrorists at worst," Damian said darkly. "At this point, we need it to go off."

Koriand'r closed her eyes. The urge to lash out at the petulant teenager was almost overwhelming. Jason had told her once that Damian was the Robin who most favored him. _We're both angry. We're both dangerous. We both don't give a shit about human life, deep down._

But that was wrong. Jason did care. So much that he went out every night into the deepest, most dangerous parts of Gotham in a quest to keep innocents safe. It was not lack of empathy, or even a removed respect for human life that drove him, but a deep-seated desire to protect it. It was, in his own twisted way, a form of Jason's love, which he expressed by sacrificing his safety for the well-being for others'.

If Jason didn't understand that much about himself, could he be wrong about Damian Wayne, as well?

"It's still dangerous for you to fight, isn't it?" Tim asked, with that earnestness that set him apart from the other Robins. "Knock on wood, but if you lose the baby, the magical pulse will kill you instantly. Isn't there a way we can get you to the Watchtower?"

"No," Kori said, and Roy's hold on her hand tightened. He hadn't liked the conversation they'd had about this, and she couldn't be sure that he hadn't enlisted Tim in the effort to change her mind. "My fate is tied to that of humanity's. If the child miscarries—which is unheard of among my people—I will share its fate. I will not court death by throwing myself into the most dangerous situations I can find, but I will not run and hide when I could be helping save this world."

"And the most badass person at this table award goes to the mother of my unborn child," Roy said, with notable glumness.

"I beg to differ," Damian sniffed.

...

...

...

 **June 27th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor rooftop, 11:18 PM**

 **Day 7**

 **...**

 **...**

"Speedy's pizza delivery, how can I help you?"

"Quit it, Kon. This is not the time."

"I can't help it, man! You and Oracle and Lantern are the only people I've talked to in a week. And I can't even use their civilian names without feeling awkward. You're all I've got, Timmy."

"It's not the time for jokes."

"Isn't it? Because it's either that or weeping like a baby. Nobody wants that."

"I know, I just—not tonight, Kon. Not with me. Please."

"Aw, jeez. Sorry, dude. Lay it on me, I know you're hurting."

"I can't do that. Not when you're hurting more."

"I didn't just lose my pseudo father/mentor/boss/reason for living, Tim."

"No, but you're stuck in the Watchtower and relatively helpless, and I know how badly you need to help."

"Well, you've got my number. So? Let me help you!"

"Aghhhhhhhhh. Kon, I can't talk about Bruce. Not yet. I will someday, but not now."

"Then what else is spinning around in the Tim-noggin?"

"Tim-noggin? Kon, have you been talking to Stephanie about me again?"

"Uh, not for the last week, no. But yeah, I may be going through Timmy gossip session withdrawals."

"You are not funny, Kon."

"No, but I make up for it with good looks and charm. Also, I can _fly_."

"I'm not going to tell you anything if you're being like that, Peter Pan."

"Oh yeah? I can hear the smile in your voice from outer space. But seriously, you should tell me what's wrong. It'll give me something to think about while Chicago inexplicably doesn't explode."

"You don't think it will?"

"I've got nothing so far. No atmospheric changes, not even the whiff of gunpowder in the air. All readings are way down because of the evacuation, but I've got no sign anything is about to happen. Tell the truth, I've got a bad feeling about this. We're out on a mighty thin limb, here."

"My worries are closer to home. Dick and Jay have been acting . . . oddly."

"Like, how oddly? Iconoclast spy oddly?"

"No, I don't think so, and both their DNA tests came back clean. I think they're keeping something a secret from us. I just don't know what it is."

"Uh oh. I know how you are about knowing everybody's secrets."

"I know how you are about pirating video games."

"Dude, you said you wouldn't tell anyone!"

"And I haven't. Yet."

"Uh. Ok then, do you want me to watch them? See if I can figure out what they're up to?"

"Only if you have any spare time. Don't let it detract from whatever Oracle or Lantern assign you."

"Got it. I'll monitor them for any _suspicious activity._ Maybe they've made an ex-Robin secrets club."

"Kon, you're being ridiculous. And what they're hiding could be unconnected, but I doubt it. They were down in the sparring ring for two hours after Jason made an attempt on Damian's life during dinner—"

"Damn! Was he successful?"

" _Kon."_

 _"_ What? A guy can hope!"

" . . . Damian is still alive and well. The attempt was half-hearted at best."

" _He should try harder next time."_

"What was that?"

"Uh . . . I said Alfred should stick him in the larder, next time."

"You are the worst liar in the entire super community."

"Um, not everyone needs to be good at _everything_ , Timothy."

"Haha—"

"Oh what was that? Was that a laugh?"

" _Ahem._ I need to go patrol. Alert me if anything happens."

"Sigh. Yes, dear."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I'm hanging up."

"No, you're no—"

…

…

…

…

…

 **Tim and Kon being superbros lifts my heart. I love them and their nebulous bromance. It's the best, and one of the few happy parts of the fic, hooray!**

 **Have I mentioned this is the darkest Arc? This is the darkest Arc. I'm sorry. It gets happier.**


	7. Ch 6 - Abduction

**If you have so far ignored the times on all those POV changes, I'd pay attention to these ones. Especially the last three . . .**

 **At the time of writing this chapter, I have not yet seen the Captain Underpants movie. I would totally like to, if just to be all nostalgic because those books were hysterical. So would Michael Wilson, but for entirely different reasons.**

 **I never knew there was such controversy about Billy Batson's birthday. I was just going to make one up, but apparently there are many to choose from, already. Went with April 1st because I found actual screenshots of the comics where Ancient Wizard Shazam wrote about teeny newborn Billy in his diary (which is not creepy at all).**

 **Lastly, I'm taking cover.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Abduction**

* * *

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor, 7:14 AM**

 **Day 8**

Roy was still blinking sleep out of his eyes when the next, inevitable League meeting was called. He was exhausted because he'd ended up patrolling with Tim Drake at 3 AM, when they'd been called in to upset some shady deals at the Gotham docks. It had been handled easily enough, thankfully, and Roy was still kind of impressed with what fighting with Tim was like. He wasn't as reactionary as Jason, nor as fluid as Dick; he was more methodical, a thinking and planning kind of guy. Total tactician, which was something Roy could appreciate. Most importantly, he was also a good leader, level-headed and responsive.

It didn't help his mood for the inevitable meeting, however. Well, he said inevitable—and had known it as early as 11:03 last night—because Chicago hadn't exactly been destroyed. Or at all, really. _And that was pretty much it for their credibility,_ Roy figured. Boy who cried wolf and all that. Between Shazam's killing spree; the shapeshifting baddies managing to ascend to the highest position in the land, and now _this_ , the public might even be convinced that the Icons had never been aliens at all—just moody superheroes who saw a chance to level the playing field when a few of the League's hardest hitters stepped out for a mo'.

To quote the venerable game of chess, it was a check.

 _But not checkmate,_ Roy told himself. _Not yet._

They were all hovering around the supercomputer down in the Batcave, again. Dick was sitting at the console, dressed as Batman. It had taken several days of mourning, three passive aggressive conversations with Alfred, and finally an actual argument with Tim, of all people, to get Dick into his old mentor's costume, but he'd finally manned up enough to do it. Everyone else was in their respective uniforms as well. Even Kori, whose uniform consisted of a leotard.

Roy was definitely not complaining.

Oracle opened the meeting, looking as if she hadn't slept or showered in days, and then a truck had come along and decided to run her over, just for yucks. "Good morning, everyone," she began in a gravelly, sleep-deprived voice, "I assume you've all heard the news."

"That Chicago is still there?" Ollie said listlessly. "Yes. Picked up on that."

Green Lantern sidled up and put his hand on his shoulder. How Hal Jordan could be such a dick to everyone but the three or maybe four people he actually liked Roy didn't know. All he knew was that Hal was not his favorite of his old man's friends. Barry Allen was better, but he was never around much. Roy had the feeling they were only friends when the pressure was on or Hal was in the room, which was a little weird, but Roy wasn't going to judge. The one he had liked without reservation was Dinah, and now she was gone. God rest her soul, and more importantly, God help _them_ because what were they all going to do without her?

Barry was sharing the monitor with Hal and Ollie, and was the only one out of uniform. Oh, scratch that, on another monitor John Stewart was wearing a fancy new suit and tie, with a nifty pin of the US flag pinned to the breast pocket.

It was he who jumped on Ollie's listlessness. "You don't understand," he said, and he sounded at once both impassioned and exhausted. It was not a pleasant mix. "If Chicago isn't attacked by the end of the day, this is the end of our League. No one will believe us now. It will be all too easy for the government to turn against us. The only thing keeping Luthor from doing so already is the average citizen's trust in us—if we lose it now . . . !"

"We may have to go underground," Oracle admitted. "Cut contact. Instigate Protocol Greenland, for those of you who know what that is."

Hal, Barry, and Ollie's eyes widened at the same time, and Roy thought that was kind of impressive, as well as worrisome.

Dick swore. "Shit. Protocol _Greenland?_ Babs, are you sure about that?"

Roy had no idea what Protocol Greenland was, but he was fairly sure he was about to find out. He was equally sure he didn't want to know what it was.

"What about Koriand'r?" Barry asked, concerned. "And the baby?"

Oh, yeah. Definitely didn't want to know what it was about.

"There is another problem," John said, looking as if he couldn't give a shit about Protocol Greenland, and was unsure why anyone else did. "Shayera missed our meeting, yesterday night. Bane discovered someone was tailing him, digging into his roots in Mexico. I fear that he's found her. If so, I may only have a finite amount of time before she cracks and gives them my name. I cannot bank on her being as strong as Bruce and Dinah."

"Are you sure?" Barry leaned forward, looking concerned. "Can't she just be lying low?"

"Bane's focus is incredible," Tim murmured. "He won't stop until he's broken her."

"He's not actually Bane," Roy pointed out. "Shapeshifters, remember?"

"We need to get you out," Dick said, ignoring them both. "John, you gotta break cover."

John shook his head. "I cannot extricate myself now. Not before I know for certain, nor if there is a chance for me to save her. If she manages to hold out and not name me, we will lose the only chance we have of taking them down from within."

"But it's too late for that, isn't it?" Dick argued. "They had their spies! They have to know you're one of us!"

"No, Richard," Oracle said. "John knows what he has to do."

"But—"

"You don't understand!" John admitted brokenly. "I _love_ her. I will not leave her to them. If I can find her by staying in position, I will." His breath hitched, and his tone turned dire. "And if she is dead, all I have left is to bring them down. I don't care if I go down with them."

"Suicidal resolve isn't what the rest of us needs, John," Hal said. "I need you to be honest with us. Can you continue on in your position? Or are you emotionally compromised?"

John lifted his chin. "At this point, I have more credibility than all of you combined. If I can find evidence linking them to the Ikons, I can make it public, and give us a foothold back into our old positions of power. I will not give up, and neither should any of you."

"Should we even be talking about this?" Damian Wayne piped up, unimpressed. "There are spies among us."

"Not today," Ollie said darkly. "'Booster' and 'Beetle' must have caught a freaking clue. They're not here."

That was damning and true. Booster and Beetle were noticeably absent. They were not the only ones, however, and Oracle shook her head. "Booster Gold and Blue Beetle are not Ikons. They underwent their DNA testing yesterday, and came back clean. I don't know where they are now, but they are not shapeshifting spies."

"Then they're the non-shapeshifting ones," Roy said. "What else could they be?"

"Captured," Tim Drake offered up.

"Dead," Jason muttered a moment later. "Seems to be the trend."

 _And that was how you earn Oliver Queen's undying enmity,_ Roy thought as his foster father glared down Jason through their monitors. Roy was now 2 for 2 on people he loved the most but his foster father wanted to interrogate, hurt and/or kill with arrows. Counting himself, he may just be 3 for 3.

"They're not the only ones missing," Hal said, in a tight voice. "Where the hell is Carol? I haven't been able to get ahold of her. I thought she was just busy, but she wouldn't miss a meeting."

" _Here it comes,"_ Dick muttered, too low to be picked up by the speakers.

Roy shot him a look. That tone of voice was not reassuring, and so although there were thousands of miles between them and Green Lantern, he stepped closer to Kori.

She'd protect him, right?

Barbara grit her teeth before looking directly at Hal and admitting, "We know exactly where she is, Lantern. We just don't know if she's human."

"What?" He hissed, rising up in the air. He began glowing with a sharp, green light.

Barry grabbed his ankle as Barbara explained, "She didn't show up for her DNA test. At about 1PM yesterday she was en route to D.C. instead."

"That doesn't mean anything!" Hal shouted. "She could have been kidnapped!"

Barbara nodded tightly. "You're right. We don't know if it was voluntary or not, and I made the choice not to act on the information until Chicago was evacuated. We do know that—"

"Goddamnit, Barbara!" Hal raged, and bright green constructs formed around him, a baseball bat, a jet, a turbine, flickering in and out of creation. "You hid this from me while you ran me ragged all day yesterday? What the hell were you thinking? This wasn't a decision for you to make! This is Carol's life!"

"Who needs to be calm now?" John Stewart answered for her. "Hal, center yourself. You're losing control of your ring."

Hal took several quick, ragged breaths. "This is _Carol,"_ he ground out.

"And I may have lost Shayera. I can assure you I love her no less than you do Carol," John said pointedly.

Hal stared down at the floor, clenching his teeth together. Slowly, he floated down to the ground. He took a few steps away from both Barry and Ollie, purposefully distancing himself from both.

"What were you saying earlier, O? About what you do know?" Dick prompted. It was a little weird hearing his warm, expressive voice coming from behind Batman's austere cowl.

Had she been a lesser being, Oracle may have smiled gratefully at Dick. As it was, her voice thawed a little as she said, "We do know that she was in Wonder Woman's apartment for about 10 minutes. Since then, she's been in the Pentagon."

"Awwww shit," Roy swore, before he could activate his brain to mouth filter. "So either she's in with them, or they're in so deep in the government that they can keep their prisoners in the goddamned Pentagon."

"How do you know this?" Barry asked, keeping one eye on Hal, and the other on Ollie.

"Tracking device," Oracle answered. "She volunteered for one during the first few days of the Ikon takeover. We just don't know if she's a true hostage or if this is a trap."

"It's _always_ a trap," the little Demon Wayne said. "It all boils down to how artfully you spring it."

"And that's what we have to discuss now," Dick said. "How we spring it, if we spring it at all."

"We are going after her," Hal said. "She's _not_ an Ikon. I talked to her on the phone the other day. It has to be her. It's _Carol._ "

John held up his hands. "Please remember she's being held in Washington D.C., and in two hours a bill is going to undoubtedly pass that will bar any super-powered beings, metas, aliens, or those allied with them from so much as passing through. If caught, any of you will detained or even killed. I can't protect any of you. All I can do is warn you."

" _Oh, that's way helpful,_ " Roy muttered to himself.

 _"Roy,"_ Kori muttered back, censoriously.

He threw her a wink before remembering that this was a super important mission, and that not everyone responded to his flippancy as well as Kori and Jason did.

"Can you at least try and find out if Carol's on their payroll?" Dick asked, partially to cover Roy's immaturity, and partially because he liked to hear himself talk. (Roy knew this to be true. They'd been besties as teens, and had gotten drunk with each other _so many times._ Dick had admitted it, there was no denying it at this point.)

"That, I can attempt," John promised.

"Thank you, John," Barbara said. "I'd like to put this to a vote. For the time being, it boils down to attempt to save her, or leave her for now. Hal?"

"We go get her," he said, glaring at them all as if that alone could influence their decision. "She was captured, she's _not a spy."_

"I also say we save her," Kori voted.

Roy sighed. She was leaving it up to him to protect both her and the child, was she? "I'm sorry, Lantern, but I say we leave her," he said. "It's a trap no matter how you look at it."

"Agreed," Damian said.

"We just don't have enough information," Tim said, diplomatically. "When we find a way past their magic, we should attempt a rescue mission."

"Two for save, three for leave," Barbara noted.

"To hell with this," John said, his expression torn. "We have to at least try. I say save her. I'll do whatever I can to run interference. Maybe a stealth mission could be successful."

"I say save," Hood said, startling the hell out of Roy, and at least half those listening. "We don't leave her to die."

Dick sighed deeply. " _Goddamn it, Jay,_ " he murmured, so quietly that only Roy, and perhaps Damian on his other side could hear. " _Don't make me do this._ " He picked his head back up and it was with his approximation of Bruce's voice said, "I vote leave. We can't risk it."

"Screw that," Ollie said. "I vote save her. No one else dies. Not if we can help it."

Just like that, it was down to Barry. He had his head in his hands. Both the people in the room with him had voted to go after Carol. Hal might never forgive him if he voted against it.

Yet that was exactly what he did.

"We can't," he said, shaking his head. He turned to Hal. "I am so sorry, Hal, but we can't risk it. Deep down, you know that."

"Fuck you, Barry," Hal spat. "Don't you dare."

Barry's face grew resolute. He turned back to the monitor. "I vote leave. For now. If we can go after her in the future, we do."

Hal would have rounded off and slugged him right then and there if Barry didn't speed step so close that Hal couldn't swing. He murmured something in his ear. Whatever he said to Hal managed to keep him from fighting outright, although neither of them looked very happy when Barry pulled back.

"Hung vote," Tim observed.

Oracle closed her eyes. "Hal, I'm sorry," she said. "I cannot do it. I would be sending in people to die. I have to do what's best for all of us."

"Fuck you," Hal said quietly. And then, more loudly, "Fuck you _all._ Call yourself heroes? You're all a bunch of cowards!"

"Hal—" Dick tried.

"No, shut up, Richard. You voted to let her die, so don't even—"

"Hey, what was that about being emotionally compromised?" Jason cut in, shifting forward like he'd find a way to drill the Lantern full of holes through the monitor. Roy knew Jason and his insane luck better than to entirely discount that possibility.

"Don't get me started, you fucking _assassin—"_

"Lantern, calm down, please," Oracle cut in. "We need to keep our heads, otherwise there's no hope of—"

"Jesus Christ will you just _shut up?"_ Hal raged. "You're the worst of all of them! Sitting there all pretty, manipulating us like a spider, and—"

"And that's _enough,"_ Barry said, grabbing Hal by the forearm. "Oracle, we'll be in touch."

"No we—Goddamnit—!"

Hal was cut off by Barry bodily dragging him off screen. There was a blur of red and green, and then Ollie was the only person left in the room.

"Well, it's not like you can blame him," Ollie said, with a listless attempt at humor. "With a mouth like that, who but Carol will ever love him?"

"Putting Hal aside for a moment, Project Greenland?" Dick asked, tersely. "You can't be serious. You _know_ what that would mean."

Oracle bit her lip. "John, we need more information. See if you can find any word or even openings on Shayera and Carol. As soon as you get back to me, I'll let you know the final decision."

"Done. I'm being hailed, so let me cut off here. Stay safe, everyone."

John Stewart's monitor flickered off. A moment later, an alarm window popped up from the side of the Batcomputer's screen.

 _Warning—explosives set off at the docks. Calibrating exact location and blast zone. GCPD eta 16 minutes._

"Shit," Jason muttered. "Roy, let's go check that out."

Thank Christ. Something to do that wasn't sitting around a dark cave _talking._ "Lead the way, Fearless."

"If villains are moving in we need to to be more present. Time to patrol," Dick decided. "Damian, come with me. Tim, stay here and help Oracle. O? You know how to reach us if anything changes."

"Will do. Stay safe, everybody."

"I'll head up to my own computer," Tim said. "Be back in a minute."

"All right, team," Roy said as Dick closed the communication window. "Break."

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Central City, 8:02 AM**

 **Day 8**

As soon as everyone began turning off their monitors, Ollie saw his chance.

"Hey, Oracle. Stay on the line a minute?"

She eyed him cautiously. "What is it, Arrow?"

"Not to parrot the New-Bat, but are you serious about Project Greenland? Because we're all being awfully blasé about implementing a plan that would have us all drop off the face of the earth."

Project Greenland was one of the last ditch plans the League had set up, years ago when they were first forming. Each member had a different set of directions, and would, after faking their deaths in a variety of ways, end up in different countries to lay low until it was deemed safe to re-emerge. Ollie was supposed to end up in Mexico, after fighting Bruce to the 'death' over some slight to Dinah's honor, or something like that. Ollie's death, that was. No one had actually expected him to kill Batman, even in this hypothetical scenario.

He hadn't been told the specifics of Dinah's Project Greenland, but he knew that she had been assigned to a country in Latin America, seeing as how they'd made a private contingency plan to meet up in Buenos Aires six months after the start of the project. He wasn't sure what his Project Greenland would be, now. Not just because Bruce was dead, but also because _Dinah_ was dead, and what point was there in living now when his death could be honestly come by?

Oracle hesitated. Narrowed her eyes as if gauging his worth, credibility, or trustworthiness. _Don't even bother,_ he wanted to tell her. _I'm nothing now that Dinah is gone._

She must not have agreed with him. "No," she admitted. "There will likely be drastic measures taken very soon, but they will not be our old plans. I have no idea how deep the spies have gotten, and can only assume they know our Greenland plans. Keep that to yourself, Arrow. I want certain people to believe that the situation is more dire than it is."

"Wow, Hal was kinda spot on about you, wasn't he?" Ollie noted. "I mean, he was being a dick, but manipulation much?"

She gave him the severe schoolmarm look that he'd always been a little turned on by, especially during his teenage years. Now he was a dried out husk of a man and the utter lack of interest made it clear to him how deadened he was emotionally.

"I don't believe we're completely rooted out the spies," she admitted. "I'm doing everything I can to keep the rest of us safe."

And that segued nicely into what he actually wanted to talk to her about.

"Is there anything I can do with that?" He asked, trying to keep his voice light. From the look on her face, he had not been successful.

"For the time being, it might be best if you could stick with Lantern or Flash," she said cautiously. "Particularly now that Carol has been taken."

"Oh, so you should stick the two guys with suicidal resolves together? Yeah, not thinking that's a good idea. Leave Hal to Barry. He'll keep him grounded. I'm only gonna bring him down."

"Suicidal resolves?" She repeated, slowly. "Is there something you want to tell me, Arrow?"

He laughed bitterly. "That I wanna die? That's no surprise. It's why I'm here, Oracle. Now that the Chicago evac is worthless, I need something to keep me going. Give me something to do. Something important, because I'm gonna throw myself at the Ikons if I have to sit here, waiting."

"Arrow . . ." she said hesitantly.

"I had an idea, although I doubt it would work," he told her, as conversationally as he could when his throat was closing up and his eyes were burning. Shit, what was your life when you started tearing up right in front of Oracle? Not good, that was for goddamned certain. "If I could guarantee I'd get her out, I'd do a suicide run for Carol. That would fix Hal, you know? And then I'd be with _her_. But—"

"That would _not_ fix Hal and you know it," Oracle cut in. "He needs you, Ollie. And Dinah didn't want you to die. You'd be going against everything she wanted for you. For all of us. For the _League._ "

Oh, shit. Now _Oracle_ was crying. It was just a little tear, gathering at the corner of her eye before it trailed down her cheek. He had forgotten she and Dinah had been close. Had been friends. That Dinah's loss was hitting her hard, too. In making this all about his own pain, Ollie was aware that he was acting like a petulant teenager, but he _could not stop._

He could remain silent, however. He could at least not make the situation any worse.

"I have something you can do," she finally said, after she had taken a few deep breaths and mastered herself. "Tim finally managed to find him, earlier this morning. He's still moving, so he's still alive."

It took Ollie a moment. "Shazam?"

Oracle nodded. "Billy Batson is in the desert of Khandaq. I'll update you on the coordinates when you get close. Bring him home alive and in full control of his magic . . . and then we can talk about giving up."

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Coast City, 8:16 AM**

 **Day 8**

Hal fought like a wild thing, and by the time Barry let go of him, he knew he'd be feeling it the next day. It didn't help that he couldn't fight Hal back. Between making sure he had a good grip on his friend and moving as quickly as was safe for Hal across the continental U.S., he'd had his hands full. Hal cursed his ears off the entire time, between punching, kicking, and writhing as effectually as he could. Had Barry not understood, deeply and intimately, what it was like to lose the love of one's life, he would have dropped his ass somewhere in the cornfields of Iowa.

As it was, he had a slightly different plan.

He began,"Ok, so whenever you're done yelling at me, we have to—"

"No, don't give me that shit, Barry!" Hal yelled. His face was mottled red, and he was completely losing his cool. Exhaustion, desperation, and personal loss hung heavily on all of them, but for Hal, who didn't have the buildup everyone else had, it was particularly jarring. He had only just returned home, and within 24 hours had lost two of the people he loved the most.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Lantern continued to rant. "Now it will take me hours to reach D.C.!"

 _And of course the first thing Hal would think of doing was to go against orders to save Carol,_ Barry thought bitterly. _He won't even listen to me, first._

Good thing Barry was prepared to make him. "Hal, you're not going to D.C. We have to check—"

Hal's voice dropped, worryingly calm and quiet. "Oh, I think I am. Unless you think you're gonna stop me?"

Oh Lord love this man. "I don't want to fight you, Hal. If you'd just listen to me for one minute, you'd know that."

Hal threw his arms wide. "Then why did you stop me, back there? Why did you keep me from going after Carol?"

Jesus, hadn't his murmured advice penetrated? "I told you! I promised you I'd keep Ollie safe, you moron!" Barry yelled back. "Remember him? Have you _looked_ at him since Dinah died? He'd go with you in a heartbeat, and he'd do it to die!"

Hal shook his head, but he looked vaguely troubled. "No, he wouldn't. He's not that weak."

Barry knew better. After Iris had died, he'd once thought about following her. Only his duty kept him from that dark moment. His duty and Hal, who let Barry pummel the shit out of him in a hayfield in Missouri.

The memory of it sparked, fleeting and powerful: _A week after he'd lost Iris, Barry had lost himself. He'd suited up and then sat on his couch, ignoring the scheduled League meeting, powerless against the force of his grief until Hal came, opening his apartment door with a spare key and dragging him out of doors. The night had been warm and beautiful, with thousands of stars spilled across the night sky, and Barry was so far removed from everything that he could not care. Hal brought him out to the field and yelled at him for what seemed like hours, before something finally penetrated and Barry snapped._

 _They beat the everloving shit out of each other, but the only moment that stood alone, crystal clear in its clarity, was when Hal stopped fighting, spread his arms wide, and said, 'Come at me, Bar. Do what you're gonna do. I'll let you do anything, because I can't live without you, man.'_

 _Something inside of Barry fractured, and all the pain and grief he'd bottled up came pouring out of him. He wept on his knees until the sun came up, and Hal was with him every minute, his arm warm and heavy around his shoulders. Barry had not let him move away, the one time he'd eventually tried. That was the one night he'd allowed himself to be set adrift in the ocean of his grief, and Hal was the only thing that kept him from drowning in the depths._

That had been the most personally painful night of his life, and one that he never wanted to relive again. Yet it was how he could empathize with Ollie, and why he'd stood by him when his grief had turned made him cruel, thoughtless, and desperate. He'd learned from Hal's example what to do in this most painful of times.

If that was what Hal needed him to do now, he'd do it.

"No," Barry said quietly, back in the present day. "You know better than that. It doesn't matter how strong you are. Love is love, and it messes all of us up."

Hal exhaled quickly. "I don't have time for this. I'm getting her back."

Hal's expression was set, and Barry guessed this was the part of the evening where they threw down. He took a deep breath. "Then you'll have to go through me," he said, before he shot forward and punched Hal in the gut. This was the riskiest part of the plan. If Hal remembered he could fly and Barry could not—something he tended to forget when they were sparring—this could be over quick.

Thankfully, Hal wasn't thinking straight. He went right for Barry, his hands encapsulated with glowing brass knuckles. His weapon set the tone, and Barry began dodging accordingly. Hal needed a close-range, highly physical fight, otherwise he'd have just slammed Barry with a turbine, or some other ranged construct. Barry jabbed and kicked at Hal, all half-heartedly, as he continued dancing just out of range. Hal continued swinging away, getting closer to Barry than he'd like.

The green glow of his power was far, far brighter than normal. Barry had forgotten about the souped up ring he was borrowing. _Maybe this wasn't a good idea,_ Barry realized. _One hit's gonna break my ribs._

"Quit dodging!" Hal yelled. "You started this, so fight me already!"

"You're a little more powerful than I realized," Barry admitted, no longer hitting Hal, but blurring around him. "You sure you can control that new ring?"

"Don't be a pussy," Hal snarled, and grazed Barry's jaw. Blood spurted out in a small arc, but he'd missed the bone. "Or can't you take it?"

 _Of all the days to not wear my costume_ , Barry winced as blood dripped down onto his shirt. Not that it offered too much protection. If Hal got a hold of him, he'd destroy him. But maybe that's what Hal needed most? And if Hal broke his ribs, he wouldn't leave Barry lying there, surely. He'd have to get him to someone who could help. Right?

What was he saying. Hal was a bag of dicks at the best of times. With his heart in tatters and Carol's life at stake, there was absolutely no guarantee he'd help him. But that wasn't what mattered. This wasn't for Barry's sake. It was for Hal's.

"God damnit!" Barry yelled out loud, and planted himself about five feet in front of his friend "Fine. Come at me. Hurt me, Hal."

Hal rushed him, but stopped at the last moment. His arm was pulled back, ready for a crippling blow when an odd look passed over his face. "Hurt me? What the hell?"

Barry winced. "It sounded better in my head."

"This isn't S&M, you moron!"

"Not without a safe word," Barry agreed, before he lunged forward and wrapped Hal in a hug; one that trapped his arms down by his sides. It was both comforting and practical, or so Barry hoped. He looked up the scant inches that separated them in height, ready to tell Hal his plan . . . and the next part of his speech withered up and died.

The look in Hal's eyes . . . Barry didn't know how to describe it. The effect it had on him was slightly easier. He'd been attracted to people when fighting them before. Hell, they all had. The adrenaline was flowing, and the super community was jam-packed with attractive men and women. But it had never been like this before—a punch in the gut that left him breathless. It had never been from meeting someone's _eyes._

It had never been from a man, before.

Never from _Hal._

Hal struggled and Barry clamped on, regaining his purpose. "Hal, will you listen for two freaking seconds? I brought you here for a reason. Look around. Where are we?"

Hal gritted out, "Coast City. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Two words: Ferris Aircraft."

Hal tried to wrest himself free. "I can _fly._ We don't need a plane."

Lord love him, Hal was kind of a dumbass sometimes, wasn't he? "Look, you're an idiot, but you're _my_ idiot, and I don't want you dead. I brought you here to determine whether or not Carol's a goddamned Ikon. If she's not, I'll change my vote and go with you. If she is . . . I'm not letting you waltz into a trap any more than I'm going to let Ollie commit suicide."

"She's _not_ an Ikon!"

"Are you sure? She's done _nothing_ to make you question her identity in the last couple of weeks?"

Hal hesitated and his eyes tracked to the right. He was clearly remembering something. But then, "No. I mean we're all acting a little off, but nothing too out of the ordinary."

"Then prove it to me!" Barry argued. "Because the last conversation I had with her was that she hated me because you wouldn't marry her. This, after a solid January of Netflix binging with her! I thought it was weird at the time, and now, knowing they're shapeshifters . . . What am I supposed to think?"

Hal closed his eyes and exhaled, and all the fight leached out of him. "Shit. I know. She told me. That's Carol," he said, his voice ragged. "Please don't ask me for specifics, but that's . . . goddamn. I'm hoping that's something that a shapeshifter wouldn't have cause to know."

Oh god, that made sense to him? Hal really _had_ turned down marriage because of him? Stunned, Barry let go of him slowly. He'd unpack that revelation later, when their lives weren't at risk from alien superbeings.

"Let's make sure," he coaxed. "We'll talk to her colleagues at Ferris, particularly those who were helping out with Chicago. They'll know if she was acting oddly, or making poor decisions." He winced. "As long as they haven't been lynched, that is. I'm sure the Chicagoans are getting pretty pissed they evacuated for nothing."

Hal's mouth tightened, but he wasn't wearing that maddened look any longer. "Goddamnit. God _damn_ it, Barry. If they have Carol . . . Fuck. Fine, but we need to be fast."

Barry grinned weakly at him. "Who do you think you're talking to to?"

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor 10:20 AM**

 **Day 8**

Koriand'r looked down at the tiny human child in front of her and wondered what, exactly, he was doing. He stood at the foot of the manor's grand staircase, wearing nothing but a white pair of underclothes, and a bright red afghan tied around his neck.

"Stan' down, evah doer! 'N back away from dat toilet!" He proclaimed proudly, hands on hips.

Kori raised an eyebrow.

Michael Wilson continued on, undaunted. "For I . . . am Captain Undapants!"

This one was a new one to her. Of all the heroes in this world he chose one that venerated underclothing?

She bent down to look the newly instated Captain Underpants in the eye. "I see," she said. "And what is it that you fight?"

This seemed to throw the young hero. "Poopy diapers?" He ventured up after a moment of thought. "Nighttime pee-pee?"

Kori bit down a smile. It felt inappropriate to do so when so much was at risk, but this strange child was enchanting. "May I assist Captain Underpants? Does he have a sidekick?"

The boy was perplexed. "Sidekick? No, I kick right in the front! Wanna see? Ka-pow!" He kicked out, and she stepped back.

He grinned. "Did I scare you? I kick real hard!"

Kori smiled down at him openly, now. "The baby was frightened," she said, pointing to her tummy. It had not begun to round out yet; her torso was long even by human standards, and Dr. Leslie thought she would not begin to show until well into what the humans dubbed the 'second trimester.'

Michael's eyes blew wide. "You have baby in _there?"_

"That's where we tend to keep it, yes," she answered with a ghost of Roy's humor. "Would you like to say hello? You have to be very gentle."

Michael crowded close. Tentatively he reached out and touched her stomach. "Hello, Baby," he said solemnly, before looking up and asking, "How's it fit?"

"It's very tiny right now. It's growing inside of me."

The look on his face as he processed that was priceless. Kori had to bite down on her molars to keep from giggling.

"When will Baby come out?"

"It will come out in about 6 or 7 months. Then you can meet it properly. Maybe you'll be its first friend."

He cocked his head to the side. "Are babies funna play with?"

"People tend to think so, yes," she said. She was definitely channeling Roy, today. It was probably not such a bad thing. "If you're gentle with them."

The tot nodded firmly. "Ok then. I am Baby's friend." He pronounced carefully. "I show it alla my hiding spots. And take 'm to meet Unca Afred and Unca Dick and Unca Tim. Then we can have cookies. It's lotta fun!"

Alfred Pennyworth sailed in from stage left, just when Kori couldn't be more charmed. "There you are, Master Michael. It's time for your bath."

The boy let out a wail. "Noooooo! I'm Captain Undapants, and he don't take no baffs."

"Doesn't take any baths," Alfred corrected him mildly. "And he most certainly does. Else how can he fight crime?"

Michael pouted. "I'mma make you wet, Unca Afred," he muttered mutinously.

"With your power, I don't doubt it. It is a possibility I am prepared to face."

Michael turned back to Koriand'r, clearly hoping she might save him from the dreaded bath time. "This mah Unca Afred," he told her. "He likes _baffs._ He makes me take 'em _every day."_

"If Uncle Alfred told me to take a bath I would do it," she told him seriously. "Besides, if you do as he says, maybe he will be your sidekick."

Michael looked up at Alfred. He appeared to be considering it, even though he was still unsure about what a sidekick actually was. "Sidekicks make cookies?" He asked, clarifying an important criteria for sidekick-dom right before Alfred picked him up.

"Excuse us, please," Alfred said politely. "We have a date with our bathtub."

"I know those!" Michael called out, delighted. "Those're yummy!"

Now Kori smiled outright. If the child she carried inside of her was that odd and adorable, she would have no qualms about rearing it. Fear set in quickly. But what if it wasn't? She barely knew what it was to be a good sister and daughter, let alone mother. And while she could not regret many of the decisions she had made in overcoming her past, what if the strain of madness that had overtaken her sister infected her child?

Or Roy's addiction? He knew—as did they all—that such things were genetic. They would have to watch their child carefully to keep him or her from falling to the same impulses that had nearly destroyed Roy's life. He worried about this, but she reminded him of the incredible work he had done in denying himself the drugs he craved. Were their child to fall prey to such an affliction, they at least knew what to do to combat it.

That would not necessarily be the case for whatever had caused her sister to sell out their homeland, her kingdom, and then her.

Kori shook her head. These worries were not things she could address, not until the child was grown. There were other more immediate concerns, many of which centered around the child's viability. As far as she knew, she and Roy were the first human and Tamaranean to produce a child together. She wondered constantly what their child would be like. Who would it favor, in looks, attributes, or abilities? What color would its skin be? Would its eyes have pupils? It was human enough to protect itself and her from the Ikonian pulse, but whose biology would it be closer to—hers, or Roy's?

Would it have any serious health problems from the joining of their species? She was not so sanguine as to believe the child would only be enhanced from the genetic mixture. Even were it to grow healthily, would it be viable with either of their species? Or would this child be the end of its line, unable to have children of its own?

 _At least it would not be alone,_ she thought as 'Captain Underpant's' wail carried down the stairs. Even if it was unlike anything she'd seen before, her child had two parents that loved it, and a little human boy who had promised to be its friend.

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Khandaq, 1:47 PM**

 **Day 8**

Billy had walked for a long, long time through the arid desert; over towering dunes and scorching sand. He had walked through the night, when the desert came alive with the movement of snakes and hardy desert insects, and the air around him grew startlingly cool. And then through all through this morning, when he thought that with every other step he must drop . . . but then he would not, and so he kept going.

The wind howled around him, and it sounded like voices. _The voices of all those you've killed,_ he told himself. A morbid conviction, but one he couldn't quite shake. Not when he was dizzy with thirst, wracked with hunger, and suffered far worse from guilt.

He'd thought the change back to Billy would kill him instantly, but his natural body was made of tougher material than he'd expected. He'd stood in the desert as a skinny, shaking teenager, but he felt nowhere near death—and he'd come close enough to know—so he traveled the desert as Shazam.

He'd changed back once more when he'd teetered on the precipice of an enormous sand dune. _All I have to do is fall,_ he'd thought, and let his body sway forward. For several breathless moments, he thought it would all be over. But before he fell halfway down the dune, he called the living lightning down.

He couldn't do it. Not that easily. Killing himself would take effort and precision, and no small amount of willpower. It was with that in mind that he took to the air and flew across the desert, back to Khandaq.

If he was to die, it would be in the shadow of the home of his old nemesis, Black Adam. Here Adam had sacrificed everything after experiencing his greatest happiness and most crushing defeats. His time in the desert had made Billy feel closer to his nemesis, even more so than when he had stood at Adam's side during his wedding, as his best man. Those had been the fleeting good days, before Adam's had lost his second wife, and his tenuous hold on being good for goodness' sake. This was before Billy had been forced to kill Adam, once again.

 _And now I'm the one with the blood of countless innocents on my hands,_ Billy inwardly raged as Khandaq grew large beneath him. _I can't deal with this. I can't become this. I can't do it anymore!_

He sank down to the outer walls, curling himself against a shadowed corner. Would that the world could pass him by, just like this. What if he just stayed here? Wasting away with every day he did not eat? If he lasted long enough, he could simply turn back to Billy and then die instantly, like Black Adam had done.

 _I want that,_ he thought, and it was with a vague feeling of surprise. _I want to die._ It was hard enough to string coherent thoughts together, and the realization brought a muted relief. It was the first time he had put words to this nebulous feeling, rather than fantasizing about the ways in which he could do it.

 _Then do so,_ a familiar voice said. Deep and accented, the sound of it brought Billy's head snapping up.

"Adam?" He called out.

 _If you long to die, then do so, and rid the world of your presence!_ Adam continued. He sounded disappointed. _I hadn't thought you so weak, but apparently I was wrong._

"It's not about strength," Billy argued. He had a flare of energy as he continued, "I just—all those _people,_ Adam. I know what I did. I killed them! I destroyed their towns, set the farmlands on fire with my lightning . . . I tore through schools, and hospitals, and apartment complexes for Christ's sake! You don't come back from that!"

 _I have done far worse in my reign,_ Adam said, dismissively. _And suffered more, too. Two wives I have buried, and my people have been destroyed, time and time again. Yet I did not mewl like a pathetic weakling. I vowed revenge; to slaughter and subjugate my enemies until they and their kingdoms were mere stains upon the Earth._

 _"_ Yeah, well, you're kinda evil," Billy said miserably. "I'm not. I can't be. I won't let myself fall. I need to . . ."

 _Need to what? Grovel for forgiveness? There is none. You have the powers of the gods at your command—you know better than anyone there is no forgiveness from them. But there is no need to ask for it. Even the wizard Shazam does not blame you._

"What are you talking about? Of course he does! Everyone does!"

 _Did he take his powers back from you?_

Billy hesitated. "No . . . but he needed me to free us from the Ikon's control."

 _And then?_

Sand swirled up, eddying around them. Billy had to close his eyes against it. It helped him think. The wizard had _not_ taken his powers back. What did that mean? Was he not evil now, even with all he had been forced to do? Or did the wizard simply not care which side of the struggle those he blessed with his power were on?

It was almost enough to make a difference, but his mind was made up. "If the wizard is not prepared to help me, I'm going to have to do it myself," he decided, and when he looked up, he could almost _see_ Black Adam, hovering in front of him with his arms crossed, his usual scowl in place.

That shock of that, as well as his deteriorating mental state, kept him from noticing the robed shape that steadily made its way over to him, only a few sand dunes away.

 _Fine,_ Black Adam decided. _If you are so determined to die, I can do this much for you._ He reached down into the sand at his feet, digging in a way most incongruous for a ghost, and pulled out a dagger. He tossed it in front of Billy.

Billy reached down for it, running his fingertips over the hilt before he picked it up.

 _Or will you disappoint me in this, as well?_ Black Adam murmured. _Again and again you defeated me in life. Perhaps I shall finally have my victory in death._

"What?" Billy asked. He picked his head back up to see Adam was gone. Before him was a vast expanse of desert, with shimmering heat mirages off in the distance. "Adam?" He called out.

There was no response. Adam was gone. Billy was alone in the desert, with only this dagger for company. He chuckled drily, and it sounded more like a sob.

"So I guess I gotta do this, then," he said to himself.

"Or we could talk this over," a familiar voice said.

Billy's head shot to the left to see a robed figure walking up to him. Irrationally afraid that the man had come to steal his dagger, Billy clutched it tightly to his chest.

"Billy, put the crusty-looking ancient ceremonial dagger down," the robed man said cautiously. "You're gonna get tetanus from that thing."

Wait a minute. He knew that voice. "Green Arrow? Is that you?"

Oliver Queen pushed back his hood. "In the flesh. Speaking of, do you know how hot it is out here? You're gonna be a lobster come the morning. Actually, I'm not sure how you're not one already, seeing as you've been out in the desert for days. Red Robin had a hell of a time finding you. Maybe it's because the desert is awful, and therefore we should leave immediately. "

Billy blinked. None of this was making sense. Arrow was here, making polite, if kind of random conversation when he should be throwing down. Billy wouldn't stop him. Hell, he'd go back to being _Billy_ just to make it all the easier.

Oliver looked really upset, though. His face was a mask of pain, and Billy figured he felt bad for what he'd come to do. "Have _you_ come to kill me?" He asked, and there was a thread of hopefulness in his voice. If he didn't use the dagger, it was less like Adam won.

"Not _you,"_ Oliver muttered under his breath. "What is it with you and death, huh? Jesus. Boy scouts like you don't know how to handle shades of grey. Yes, you killed a bunch of people. If John Constantine is to be believed, it wasn't actually you doing it, though. So buck up, buttercup. We've got a world to save."

Billy was utterly boggled. Green Arrow wasn't here to kill him? He was here to bring him back? No, it couldn't be—this had to be a trick. It took him several tries to speak. "Arrow, don't do this to me. I have to atone. Don't bring me back for some bullshit trial. Let me die here. It'll be better this way."

"Better for who?" Ollie asked. "'Cuz what it looks like to me is that you're trying to shirk punishment."

"No! I'm punishing myself! The ultimate punishment!"

"Why, so you'll feel a little less guilty?"

Shazam frowned. "No, so the world be _safe."_

"Oh, no you don't," Ollie argued. "We already know you're free of their control. More importantly, if I don't get to die, you don't either. Not until the Ikons are defeated. We need you, Shazam. We don't have any bruisers left."

"What good am I?" Billy cried out. "How can I help you when I killed all those people?"

Ollie pursed his lips. His weight shifted to the side and now Billy could make out the bulk of his bow underneath his robes. "It won't happen again," he assured Billy. "You've broken their hold over you. You're _free."_

"Free and a murderer," Billy muttered darkly. The hand that held the dagger rose, until the business end of the blade rested gently against his throat. "I can't do it, Arrow. I'm sorry."

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Khandaq, 2:18 PM**

 **Day 8**

 _Well, shit on a brick and use it for building,_ Ollie thought as Shazam brought the blade to his throat. _This isn't going well._ He cursed the robes that shielded him from the desert heat. There wasn't enough time to draw his bow, nock it, and shoot the knife from Billy's hand. Not with Shazam's speed.

Would the cut be enough to kill him? Was the knife itself special? Ollie had seen Shazam recover from incredible wounds, enough to kill a normal man 100 times over. But Shazam was taking this so seriously . . . he must think it had a chance of working.

How else could he stop him? His only weapon was his bow, and—oh. Oh yeah. His big, fat mouth.

"Remember what you said to Bruce, back at the beginning of this? When he was beating himself up for not saving everyone?" Ollie said, as offhandedly as he could. Memories of Dinah swamped over him, but one in particular stood out. A late-night date, a couple bottles of wine, and a conversation about Batman and guilt that he'd never been able to forget.

He had to hope she'd been right, because otherwise he was screwed, and Shazam might be way worse than that.

Billy hesitated. "No?"

Ollie sighed, pretending to be aggrieved. "You know, that he's gotta be Batman, because Batman always sees us through? Well, you gotta be Shazam, because we _need_ Shazam."

Billy breathed out harshly. "Batman didn't kill all those people!"

"No?" Ollie asked. Billy's hand faltered, and he thought this might just work. "Think about it. How many people has the Joker killed? Scarecrow? Bane? The Riddler? Now think about how many people every member of the Rogue's Gallery would have killed off in their collective careers."

Ollie arched his brow, driving the point home. "Now think about all the times Bruce didn't kill the fuckers who were terrorizing those innocents are dead because Bruce couldn't kill a dozen crazies."

Billy's eyebrows drew down, making him look just a little like Roy had, during his petulant teenager stage. "But that's not . . . that's the villains' fault, not Batman's!"

Ollie shook his head. "That's not how he sees it. He suits up every night, staggering under the weight of all the people he's let die. And if that's what Batman can do—normal, unmagical Bruce Wayne—what can you do, when you're powered by the might of an ancient freaking wizard?"

Billy looked up at him with huge eyes. "That's . . . what he does? He lives like that? That's not fair to him. It's not his fault!"

"It's not yours either," Ollie said, even though he knew the kid wouldn't believe him at this point. "But for Bruce it doesn't matter anymore. He'll never have to worry about that ever again."

The finality in his tone made Billy still. "What do you mean?" He whispered.

Only then did Ollie realize that Billy didn't know. Couldn't know. He'd been wandering around the desert for long enough to hallucinate dead enemies—at least, that's what Ollie assumed he was doing when he'd been calling out for Adam—and he'd been cut off from Oracle and the New League, so how could he know?

Ollie understood all this, but he still hated that he'd have to be the one to tell him. Hated that he had to say it with his own mouth. "Batman is dead. So is Huntress. And . . . and Dinah."

The dagger fell from Billy's fingers. "What?" He breathed.

"The Ikons got them."

Shazam stared up at him, wide-eyed and silent. Eventually the dam broke and he began to cry; deep, heaving sobs, and Ollie's stomach churned. It was one thing for a woman to cry. Kids were also manageable, they cried all the time. But a grown man? A grown man who could punch through solid stone and survive the unthinkable? It was like Superman crying, except Ollie didn't know Billy the way he knew Clark.

Ollie was so not prepared for this. Distantly, he hoped that he would not be required to hug Shazam, or something.

"I'm so sorry," Billy sobbed. "Arrow, I'm so sorry about Black Canary. I know how much you guys loved each other."

"No you don't," Ollie snapped. "You don't know anything. About her, or me, or us."

Shazam hiccupped, like he was a _kid_ for Christ's sake. "I don't. I know I don't," he wailed. "But I'm still sorry. I liked her a lot. She was really cool. One of the adults in the League I really looked up to. And _Batman?_ I can't . . . He . . . " He had to swallow before continuing. "I have met actual _gods_ and I still think that he is greater than them. I can't believe it. He _can't_ be dead!"

"Yeah, well, it happened," Ollie said bitterly. "Now can you see how why we need you?"

Billy shook his head, still in the throes of his grief. "I'm so, so sorry you lost Canary. And Batman. And Huntress. I just—I should have been there to help. I'm so sorry."

Ollie swallowed past the burning lump in his throat. "Can you prove that?"

"What?" Billy asked, his face stained with tears.

"Prove how sorry you are," he said harshly.

"I—I can try."

"Good. Don't kill yourself until the Ikons have been defeated. Then I'll believe you. Then you'll have atoned for some of your sins. Can you do that?"

"But . . ." Shazam trailed off, looking back down at the dagger. "But I'm a bad guy, now."

Oh, his sainted aunt. "Did you not listen to a word I said? You're not a bad guy unless you leave us high and dry while the Ikons are still here. What if they kill more of us and _you_ refused to help us?"

Billy choked on a sob. "That's not fair. You can't—"

"Can't what?" He gritted out. "Make you face reality? 'Cuz it'd be so damn easy to just off yourself, I get that, but you have a responsibility to yourself, to us, to the _world._ If the Ikons win it, you have done worse than killed all those people. You've failed every single person on the planet."

 _Oh shit,_ he thought to himself, as he saw the light of understanding reflect in Billy's dark eyes. _This goes for me, too, doesn't it?_

"Is it that close?" He whispered, aghast. "Are we in that much trouble?"

"Did you miss the part where I told you Batman was _dead?"_

Billy bowed his head. He breathed in deeply as the desert winds stung Ollie's face. Finally, "Ok," he said. "Ok. I'll prove it to you. I won't die until it's over."

"Good. Now let's get going—hey, wait," he said, as something inconsequential hit him. It was just a funny feeling, but it niggled away at him, like he was missing something. "What did you mean, adults in the League? Even Cyborg was almost 25 when he joined, and he's the youngest member to date."

Shazam slowly got to his feet. "Oh. Batman said I shouldn't show anyone who didn't already know, but I can't do this on my own. If . . . if I'm gonna keep living, I can't hide it anymore."

Ollie narrowed his eyes at him. He _was_ missing something, and here it was. "Billy, what are you talking about?"

Billy bowed his head. " _Shazam!"_ He cried out, and when the lightning cleared, there was a skinny, floppy-haired teenager standing in Shazam's place. The incongruity of it was so great Ollie couldn't take it in.

"What—what just . . .?"

Billy sniffled as he shuffled his feet, clearly unnerved by Ollie's amazement."This is what I actually look like when I'm not the magical wizard Shazam. My name's Billy Batson—oh, but I guess you already knew that, right."

"Billy," Ollie said, mind stalling. "How old are you?"

The kid tried to smile and failed. "I'll be 19 next April. I'm uh. A little younger than you thought, huh?"

Ollie could not handle this. Shazam was the all-powerful wizard, but also a child? "But you— _you . . ._ You've been fighting with us for the last 7 years. 8 years? Oh, my god. I just . . . _what?"_

Billy nodded. "6 and a bit. I had just turned 12 when I joined the League."

The shock finally got to him. His legs gave out, and Ollie sat right down on the blazing hot sand. "12?" He shrieked. "You were a _12-year-old_ and Bruce let you in? To do what we do? To kick the ever-loving shit out of evil?

"And Superman," Billy said, hesitantly. "And Wonder Woman. They were the three that knew. Well, Victor too, but not until later. That's why they paid so much attention to me in the beginning. They were worried I'd have a breakdown and not be able to handle it."

"They shouldn't have let you in," Ollie said, stunned. "A kid your age? You should have been living a normal life! Bruce I understand, because of his fixation on 13-year-old boys that he inevitably renamed Robin, but what the hell were Clark and Diana thinking?"

"What were they supposed to do?" Billy asked. "I was a 12-year-old with incredible power, and a lot of anger, too. They thought it was better if they trained me, and made sure I didn't go dark side." He took a deep breath. "Besides, the wizard chose me for a reason. "

"He likes 12-year-old boys too?" Ollie asked weakly.

Billy tilted his chin up, and Ollie saw a flash of Shazam in him. _Oh,_ he thought. _I see it now._

"Because I am the one who can see it done. I will not let evil go uncontested," he announced, and it was like he was coming back to life. For a moment, he was so far removed from the hopeless wreck on his knees with a knife in his hand, that Ollie couldn't put them together.

"Well, that's . . . good," he trailed off lamely. He needed a moment to wrap his head around this. Ollie had long considered Shazam to be the biggest boy scout in the business. He didn't drink, didn't sleep around (or with anyone, truth be told), didn't even swear all that much . . . but now it made sense. He'd been, on average, a good decade or two younger than anyone else in the League, and had to operate as their equal; not just in power, but in social and emotional intelligence. No wonder he was so forthright and honest and, truth be told, childlike sometimes. He _was_ a child.

"Shit," he murmured. "I'm sorry for thinking you were so lame, before. No wonder Clark and Bruce never let you drink."

"Errr, that's actually the first thing I tried to do," Billy admitted sheepishly. "Right when I got my powers and looked like an adult."

Memories of Roy and his addiction to drugs rose up, and Ollie was suddenly thrust back into his mindset of eight years ago. "No drinking! No drugs! Or I'll kill you myself, Shazam or no!"

Billy blinked. "Um. Yeah. I know. Actually I don't like drinking all that much." He gave a pained smile. "I don't like feeling like I'm not in control."

Ollie heaved a sigh before pushing up to his feet, just as Billy began weaving on his. "Jesus, Billy. Are you ok?"

"I won't drink ever again if it makes you feel better," he said woozily. Now that he was unprotected by his magic, the moment of coherence was gone. The heat, exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger were hitting him hard. "It won't bring Canary back, but I'll try and be good."

"Oh, shit, kid. You're gonna—"

Billy cut him off by passing out. He slumped down face-forward onto the desert sand. Ollie sighed, before leaning over and hoisting him up.

"Jesus, kid. You're heavy. At least you're not in magical wizard form. That would be way harder," he muttered to himself as he leaned him back against Khandaq's outer wall. The shade would help, and so would the water he'd make him drink in just a minute. First, he had to secure their way out of here.

Ollie pulled out a handheld communicator. Not quite as high tech as Wayne's toys, but a nice piece of equipment, nonetheless. "Need pickup pronto. Picked up the goods, and we're ready to head home."

"Yes, sir," Kevin, his personal pilot replied. He'd been flying Oliver Queen around for years, and he'd taken the news that he'd now be flying Green Arrow around astoundingly well. It had encompassed a raised eyebrow and a single nod. "ETA 4 minutes."

"Thanks," he said before hanging up. He glanced over at the unconscious teenager next to him, and sighed. It was going to be a long trip back to Gotham. Now that suicide was no longer an option for either of them, it was going to be an even longer life.

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Clocktower, 3:07 PM**

 **Day 8**

It was around 3:00 PM on the eighth day of the Ikon takeover that Barbara Gordon realized she could no longer put her trust in either Shayera Hall—from whom there was still radio silence, and that didn't bode well—or John Stewart. Shayera was either dead, a shapeshifter, or running so hard she was beyond their reach, but for John this was a harder decision. He was still in position, their highest placed spy, and one who'd passed the DNA test. She could no longer argue past the main problem, however. Although she believed him to be uncompromised, he was surrounded by Ikons.

Now that they knew it was an alien takeover, his efforts to play them were no longer enough. Slowly cutting ties with Lantern Corps and the superhero community throughout the past year might be enough to convince the actual Lex Luthor, but Ikons would not care past a certain point. Assuming they had his loyalty might be why they had left him alive and relatively untouched for so long, but would not continue to protect him forever. There was no way he could effectively feed them unfiltered information, nor take action if the time was right. Her advice for him to break cover had been more for this than Carol Ferris's disappearance.

And then she'd been shot down because of his feelings for Shayera. If only she had known! She would have couched that differently, in ways that might have been more persuasive. Barbara was thankful he was level-headed so far, but she knew how emotions could work on a man, could make him almost unrecognizable . . . to say nothing of shredding his common sense and bright future.

 _Take Richard for example,_ she told herself, bitterly. _He went and found the 'love of his life' and now look at the decisions he's making!_

The point was that she had three men at the point of committing themselves to suicidal resolves, and very few people to rely on. John Stewart was suffering, but so far staying the course. If he snapped, however, there was nothing anyone could do to save him. Oliver Queen may be past saving, but if he brought Shazam home, she hoped that he might come to his senses in doing so.

In Hal Jordan's case, she was profoundly grateful that Barry had somehow gotten ahold of him and made him see sense. They were still investigating Carol's last few days with her colleagues, and as yet hadn't decided if she truly was an Ikon, or an innocent. Although Hal still remained insistent that she was innocent, there were apparently several inconsistencies that worried Barry.

Barbara had not yet warned them that Project Greenland was a smokescreen, designed primarily to confuse the Ikons if John was somehow forced to give them that information. Only Ollie and Alfred knew so far, and, when she stopped being mad at him, she would tell Richard as well.

Let him tell Red Hood and his Outlaws, if he was so _fond_ of them.

She planned on telling Barry tonight, if Hal hadn't convinced him to do a suicide run on the Pentagon. Other than that, the information would trickle down through them, and hopefully give her enough time to create and implement the beginning of a new Project Greenland, if needed. They'd have to name it something snappy. Maybe she'd get Roy to think of something? He was pretty much the perkiest member of the New League, at this point.

Barbara lay her head down on the desk in front of her with an audible thunk. If the words 'Roy' and 'perky' were coming up in the same sentence, that was a bad sign. The strain was clearly getting to her. The whole situation was interminable, but it was just so hard to carry on without Bruce, or Dinah, or Helena. Barbara had gone from three pillars of support to none, and now she was dangling out on a thin limb with half the League upset with her. She remembered how Hal had lost it, and accused her of being a manipulative spider.

Dark thoughts plagued her. _Isn't that what I am?_ _All I can do broker information, and run New League meetings. I'm pathetic._

And then, tiredly, _I want to talk to Dad._

But that had been the bridge she'd burned herself, at least for the time being. The last time they'd talked she'd been pulling out her hair, and he'd tried to get her to come home and leave the superhero community. She'd lost it, and told him exactly what she'd be doing—which was nothing of what he'd suggested. _Just leave me alone and let me do my job_ had been the crux of it, and in the end, he'd done just that. He'd shrugged (and even now, the callousness of it made her stomach churn) and cut off the audio-visual chat.

He'd been furious with her, but it was so hard to bear that he'd cut off contact with her since. Even though it was exactly what she'd asked for. He _had_ stayed in contact with Bruce, and now Richard, but that was no surprise. Gotham needed Batman and Commissioner Gordon more than Barbara needed her father. More than she needed help, and more than she needed sleep.

 _I'll make it up to him when all this is over,_ she promised herself, as exhaustion overtook her, and she fell into a deep sleep.

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 5:47 PM**

 **Day 8**

Dick Grayson was prepared to argue that it wasn't irresponsible or unsafe to leave Jay and Damian acting as Batman and Robin for a couple hours with only Tim as backup while he and Roy picked up take out. Not when they disguised themselves so carefully and placed the order on a burner phone Roy had picked up on one of their recent assassination missions. They were being cautious, and more importantly, he _needed_ a couple hours away from the suit. From the Manor. From being Batman.

"So, what's Project Greenland?" Roy asked, thankfully before they got out of the plain, beige sedan that they'd taken rather than anything identifiably Wayne. A few raindrops fell around them, and the humidity was stifling. The stormy skies above them signalled worse to come.

"A smokescreen, I think," Dick replied as he shut the driver's side door. "I'm fairly sure Babs was bluffing, but it would have been our disappearing act."

Roy played with the brim of his hat. It was a different one than what he normally favored. Even though he was nowhere near as high profile as Dick, they were taking no chances. "Would you have gone through with it?" He asked.

Dick's Project Greenland had him ending up in the Czech Republic, relying on one of the languages his Romani mother had taught him. While Bruce had played with making him Damian's caretaker, it was eventually decided that it was too suspicious for the two of them to hide together, and Damian would have been sent to Iceland. Damian wouldn't have lasted two months there—they didn't even have an _army—_ yet Dick was in no position to talk, as he wouldn't have lasted two weeks undercover.

"No," he admitted. "And you probably know why."

Roy nodded. "Yeah, I guess I do. I don't know if this helps, but I don't think he'd have gone with you. Not at first. He doesn't know how to run away from things. But when it was all over he would have found you. He's not exactly the kind of guy to give up on things, either."

Dick's heart was so full he could not speak. This, coupled with what had happened last night, made up his mind. "I can't hide this anymore. No matter what happens, I can't go on keeping him a secret."

"Didn't have a problem keeping it from _me,"_ Roy muttered. "Let me tell you, walking in on you two the other night took ten years off of my life. I thought you guys still hated each other!"

Dick smirked. "We do. Occasionally. And then the sex is even more fantastic than usual."

Roy held the door open for him, and the smell of greasy yet delicious Chinese cooking wafted out. He faked gagging. "Dude. _Dude._ But in all seriousness, we've got your back. I'm uh, not exactly sure how you're gonna come out with it, though. We're kind of at war. We do have more immediate priorities."

Dick shrugged. "I'm not going to make a League wide announcement, or anything. I figured I would tell A first, and then the rest when I saw them."

"Well, if you want a nice segue, I might have one for you."

"Oh?"

Roy chuckled. "Kori wanted to be there when we asked you, so pretend to be surprised when we do, ok? But we wanted to know if you'd be the godmom for our kid."

Dick's mouth fell open. "Godmother? _Me?"_

Roy held up his hands. "Well, we definitely want Jason to be the other godparent, and it would be a little weird sticking him as the god _mom,_ so . . ."

Dick's face lit up. "No, I'd be honored! Roy, that's wonderful." He shook his head. "It still just doesn't feel real," he observed. "You and Kori are having a _baby."_

"I keep telling myself that, and it's just as awesome _every time."_

Dick shook his head as they moved up in line. "And you're sure that you want _us_ as godparents?"

Roy punched his arm. "Of course, man. We figured that between the two of you, the kid's gonna end up all right."

"More than all right," Dick grinned back. "Your kid's gonna be awesome if we're the ones teaching it the ropes."

"Oh and that reminds me," Roy said. "None of the circus stuff until it is old enough to walk. I mean, I realize you are a contortionist and all, but our child is probably not going to be as bendy, or able to walk tightropes in the living room. And yes, we have already warned Jay away from the toy guns."

"What about a bow and arrow?" Dick teased.

"I got my first at three," Roy admitted. "Granted, I grew up on a Reservation, so . . ."

They were now the first in line. Dick laughed a little as he glanced up at the tiny Chinese woman at the till. "Hi! We'll have three orders of fried dumplings—"

"Four." Roy interrupted. "K's gonna eat one all by herself. Eating for two, remember?" He twitched and touched his ear, activating the hidden bluetooth that masqueraded as a wrap-around earring. "Oh, hey babe. Was just talking about you!"

Dick turned back to counter. "Four orders of fried dumplings, and order of kung pao chicken with fried rice, and one of sesame . . ." He trailed off when he realized the woman in front of him was not moving. She was just staring at him, expressionless.

Too late his self-preservation instincts kicked in.

"What the . . .?" He trailed off. Then, "Roy, get out of here!"

"Wait, what?"

Dick vaulted back from the counter, shoving back through the people in line behind him. Before his eyes, the tiny Asian woman melted away, until there was nothing but an indeterminate grey shape in front of him. Neither completely solid, gas, or liquid; bright or dark, it hurt his eyes to look at it.

"Shit, shit!" Roy called out. "Babe, requesting backup—" He cut off abruptly as the grey thing— _Iconoclast?_ Dick's mind hysterically provided—slithered over to Roy faster than Dick could make out, and wrapped around him. Roy choked and kicked, mindless of the screaming patrons of the store. Dick fought his way through the people fleeing the store, but before he could reach either his friend or the exit, the grey shape split into two. The newly separated piece hurled itself at his face, and he knew no more.

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor 6:10 PM**

 **Day 8**

"Tim! Timothy Drake, come in!"

Tim jolted awake. For a moment he was back a week ago, sleeping in his bed in Bludhaven, when it had been Barbara shouting him awake. This time he was drooling onto his keyboard, and it wasn't Barbara shouting in his ear, it was John Stewart.

"Tim, do you read me?"

"Loud and clear, John," he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "What's wrong?"

It was only an audio connection, but John's panic was unmistakable. "I can't get ahold of Oracle, but there's no time. Dick and Roy are heading for a trap. I just overheard a transmission saying they were going to a Chinese restaurant on Harlem street, and that one of 'special agents' was in position to intercept. You have to stop them!"

Tim felt as if his mind was moving at lightspeed, and not at all. "Shit," he breathed, as he scrambled on his computer, his fingers flying over the keys. "Shit—I can't find . . . I can't get ahold of Dick's signal—I can't even get through to him! John, how many—"

"I have to go. Be careful!"

And with that, John Stewart was off the line. Tim threw back his head and swore, loudly. Then, he jumped over the back of his chair to race down to the Batcave. He tried hailing Jason and Damian who were out patrolling, but got no response. Nor could he get Oracle. _Have our systems been jammed?_ _What the hell is going on?_ He wondered, but there was nothing for it. All he could do was dictate a vocal message to Damian on the channel they used for Teen Titans as he hurriedly threw on his Red Robin suit.

" _Going after Dick and Roy. May have been captured. Chinese place on Harlem street. Inside agent gave info."_

Then he placed one more call. Thankfully, this one went through without a hitch.

"Sup, buddy?"

Tim threw one leg astride his motorcycle. "Got a mission. Ready to be my backup?"

Kon's reply was clear, even with all the Earth's atmosphere between them. "Always. What are we doing?"

Tim grit his teeth. "Saving Nightwing and Arsenal."

...

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor 6:04 PM**

 **Day 8**

"Oh hey, babe. Was just talking about you!"

Kori smiled at the sound of her lover's voice. She peered out through the french door, watching the rain fall steadily harder. "Perhaps I should be worried if you and Richard are discussing me? But before I forget—have you already ordered? Will you bring back—"

"Wait, what?" The tension in his voice made her pause. And through the receiver she could hear sounds of a commotion, and distinct screams.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. "What's happening over there?"

"Shit, shit!" He said instead, audibly panicking. "Babe, requesting backup—"

The line was cut with chilling finality. The dial tone blared in the stillness, and the phone dropped from Kori's nerveless fingers.

They had him. They had taken _Roy._

A moment later, she shot through the french door of the second floor balcony of the East Wing into the storm, a screaming, mindless thunderbolt hurled upwards from the earth.

She would find him.

She would make them pay.

...

...

...

...

...

 **Still resolutely taking cover.**


	8. Ch 7 - ronaM enyaW levarT

**Trigger warnings: Language, assassinations/murder committed by heroes. You are warned.**

 **In case you forgot this work was largely inspired by Arkham Asylum, there will be a nifty gadget to help remind you. (And yes I know it wasn't used by either of these characters in the original game. I had to think of a new origin for this gadget in order to make it fit.)**

* * *

 **Chapter 7:** _ **ronaM enyaW levarT**_

 **(Could also be entitled—Damian Wayne's Growing Pains)**

* * *

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 6:46 PM**

 **Day 8**

 **...**

"So it's not like I'm saying that you always need to go low or anything, but I am taller than you, and if you keep forcing _me_ low I'm just going to start shooting their kneecaps out," Red Hood told Robin as they huddled against the lip of a rooftop, taking cover from the pouring rain. He thought that he wasn't being unreasonable. Damian was growing like a weed, and would likely end up being the biggest out of all of them, but Jason still had at least 2 inches on him. Ducking down to cut someone's legs from under them was only exciting for the first 6 times, or until your back started aching.

Jason was in no respects an old man, particularly as he'd been dead for about a year, so as he could figure, but sometimes he felt like one, damn it.

Robin, the little demon shit, looked at him and sneered. "If you are so incapable of adjusting your battle tactics—" He cut off, his head cocking to the side. "Hold on. Transmission from Drake. On the Teen Titan channel—I thought that was defunct."

Jason nodded at him. "See what he has to say. Maybe he's calling us in?" It had been a busy night so far, particularly because whoever had laid the explosives at the docks had not laid low. He wasn't exactly sure who was behind it—either there was someone new on Gotham's crime scene, or it was just another aspect of the Ikons' plan—but they'd had what seemed like endless amounts of goons to slow them down over the last several hours.

It hadn't helped that the looming storm had finally broken only a few minutes ago. On nights like this, patrol was basically useless. Even the lowest level goons were moving indoors, and with how dangerous it was to use their grapples in this weather, to say nothing of slick roads beneath their motorcycle tires, they'd have a way tougher time getting home.

"What's he saying? It important?" He asked, when Damian didn't immediately relay the contents of Tim's message.

Damian frowned. "The message is garbled. All I'm getting is: 'Going . . . Roy. . . have been . . . Chinese . . .age? Ij? That's not an English word, what language is he going into?"

Jason narrowed his eyes. "Roy's been jonesing for Chinese, but I doubt Tim would go to that much trouble just to get our order. Let me try to reach—"

He cut off when even the com link, quiet since the rain had begun to fall, refused to connect. Jason pressed the button again, and attempted the voice activated sequence.

"No good," he said to Damian. "Shit, this on top of everything else. What the hell is going on with our technology?"

"Maybe the Ikon spies have scrambled our frequencies," Damian said darkly, water dripping from his face. "It would explain why Drake had to revert to the old Titan channel. Let me listen again."

Jason hunched closer so he, too, could listen to Tim's transmission. He had slightly better luck in making out the message. "Going after . . . Roy. . . have been captured—what the hell! Play it again!"

They listened one more time, and learned on the third hearing that an inside agent had warned Tim that Roy had been taken captive.

"Shit shit _shit._ When was this sent?" Jason asked, already calculating how fast it would take to get to the Manor. Then, even before Damian answered, he tried hailing Oracle.

Just as before, nothing went through. Not to the cave, nor to the clocktower . . . and neither Kori nor Roy were picking up when he tried them.

Damian hissed through his teeth. "I can't—oh, wait. 6:13 PM. Why was it so delayed?"

Jason swore viciously. "Maybe for the same reason that I can't contact _anyone._ Come on, we gotta get back to the Manor. No matter what the Ikons did to strand us out here, we'll be able to raise _someone_ from the computer in the cave."

"What about Drake? He needs our assistance!" Damian looked marginally upset. Did he care even a little for Tim? Color Jason surprised, but this was not the time for that.

"And maybe he's back at the Cave."

"Don't be naive," Damian snarled.

Him? _Naive?_ Yeah, the ex-Tiny Terror must be more upset than even he realized if he couldn't see two steps ahead. "Yeah well, we can't contact him from here, and there's no point in running off blind. Maybe he left info with Dick, or on the computer." There was no time for this. The more Damian argued, the longer Roy was in trouble. Jason's voice hardened. "Let's _go._ "

When they returned, the Manor was eerily quiet. Kori should have been there, along with Alfred and Michael, but when Jason called out no one answered.

"Something's wrong," Damian muttered. "You find Grayson, I'll head down to the cave—"

"Oh, no, we're sticking together. If we've got unfriendlies in the Manor, we need to take them down quickly," Jason said. "And we have to secure Alfred and the toddler. Let's move."

Damian tsk'd, but acquiesced. Moving as quickly and cautiously as they could, it still took them a good 15 minutes to explore the Manor. The dark, empty rooms grated on Jason's nerves. He'd never seen the Manor so lifeless, where even the air felt heavy enough to slow them down. Was it like this because Bruce was gone? Or was there something more sinister at work?

More importantly, where was Alfred? Where was _Dick?_

Finally, they heard Michael Wilson's delighted gurgle from behind a closed door in the East Wing. "Look, Unca Afred! I make the room all dry!"

Alfred's reply was muted by the heavy door. "Very good, Master Michael. Now just stay at the corner until I'm done here. We don't want you cutting yourself."

Damian charged forward. Thankfully, there were no hidden assassins or Iconoclasts lying in wait. Just Alfred stooping down next to shattered french door, sweeping jagged pieces of glass into a dustpan. From the amount, he'd need a fair number of scoops. At the far end of the room, Michael Wilson had both his pudgy hands up in a stopping gesture. He was using his powers to redirect the rain from entering the room, and looked completely delighted to be doing so.

Alfred glanced up. "You're back? That's early. Did the storm drive you home?"

"No. What happened here?" Damian asked.

 _Where's Dick?_ Jason tried to ask, but his throat closed up. Dick should have been here. Why wasn't he here? Was he in the Cave? _Fucking shit,_ Jason swore mentally. _That man better be in the cave._

Alfred frowned."I'm not entirely certain," he admitted, nodding to the security camera. "But according to the security recording, Miss Koriand'r was on the phone, and received what must have been bad news. She tore through the french door, leaving the phone behind. It was soaked through, so I took the liberty of putting it in a bowl of rice, in case we could learn anything from it."

Jason let out a shuddering exhale, trying to combat the anxiety that rose like fog misting upwards over damp earth. There were very few things that could send Kori into an outright panic. She had to know Roy had been taken.

 _Shit,_ Jason thought. _Now I'm gonna have to save both of them._

"What about Drake?" Damian stressed. "We got a hail from him. He knew Harper had been captured."

Alfred's face tightened. "That would explain Starfire's rush. But I've not seen Master Timothy, not since he went down to the cave."

"When was that?" Damian pressed.

Alfred shook his head, his expression grave. "I don't know for certain. Forty minutes, perhaps?"

"Cave. _Now."_ Jason ordered, before either could ask after Dick. Damian took off for the Cave and Jason raced after him, all the while hailing Oracle and failing. Now the call went through, but no one was picking up on her end. _What the flying fuck had happened here?_ He wondered. Had Tim raced off after Roy without waiting for backup? If he knew he had been captured, why had he thought that going alone would solve anything?

And where the hell was Dick through all this? He had to be in the cave—otherwise Jason was going to fucking lose it—but if so, why hadn't he corresponded with Tim? Had he gone after Babs when he realized she was unable to be reached? Or was he desperately trying to hold down the fort all by himself?

Everything was spiralling out of control, and Jason could not stand the feeling. It had taken him years since pulling himself from the grave to regain some control over his emotions, his ever-present anger, and the overall direction of his life. Being dunked in the Lazarus Pit while in a fit of rage hadn't helped, but thanks to that, he had learned the value of keeping calm the hard way. Now, he had to be steady and not lose his way. If he couldn't, who the hell was going to save Tim, Roy, and Kori?

That resolve lasted until they reached the computer. Dick was not there, but he had to be in the locker room, or one of the darker corners of the cave, Jason thought wildly. Unwilling to look more closely at Dick's absence, he threw himself into the chair and punched in the 14 digit start-up code, and before the screen fully loaded there came an angry voice echoing out of the speakers, loudly enough to make Jason flinch back.

"THEY TOOK HIM! THEY GOT HIM! WHY THE FUCK ISN'T THIS GOING THROUGH?"

"Hey, hey!" Jason yelled. "Calm down! We just got in, what are you talking about?"

"Is that Kent? _"_ Damian asked, leaning forward. "He's _alive_?"

As if in answer, the visual component of the chat flickered to life. On the other end was Kon-El Kent, and from the looks of his background, he was transmitting from the central control of the Watchtower.

"Goddamnit, where the hell have you been?" He demanded, only slightly quieter than his previous roar. He looked awful; panic-stricken and helpless at the same time.

Jason's blood chilled. Fear stopped his mouth, his mind, his everything. Slowly and with great difficulty, he began to put together the obvious pieces of this puzzle. If Kon had been trying all this time to hail anyone, that meant that Dick hadn't been in the Cave. And if that was the case . . .

"What the hell are you doing? I thought you were dead!" Damian accused.

"I've been here the entire time. I'm the secret backup," Kon said bitterly. "But Tim—"

"That's impossible!" Damian interjected. "Father would have said something!"

Jason said nothing. None of this was a surprise to him. He realized that Tim must have gotten word of Kon's safety a few days back, when he'd sleepily demanded to be carried to bed. But to be kept secret from the rest of the family? That meant neither Bruce nor Barbara had trusted Dick, Damian, or himself, and that kind of sucked.

All of that was secondary, however. Tension choked him, making it hard to think clearly beyond where was Dick? _Where was Dick?_

"What part of secret don't you understand?" Kon yelled back. "But there's no time for this. They _have Tim._ Where the hell have you been? I couldn't get ahold of anyone!"

"Our coms were cut," Jason said. It was a struggle to stay calm, but he had to do it. It was made easier when Damian was beginning to pace, and Kon-El looked like he'd actually been tearing his hair out. "All we know is that Roy was captured, and Tim said an inside agent contacted him. Why the hell did he go after him?"

Kon snarled. "Because we didn't know they'd already been captured! If not for John Stewart—"

"Tell us what happened," Damian ordered. "From the beginning. Quickly."

Kon took a deep breath, and it shuddered out on the exhale. "Fuck you. But Tim got an emergency message from John, who said that Dick and Roy were heading for a trap in a Chinese restaurant on Harlem. There was no time, and I was the only one he could reach. He went after them, thinking he could save them, but it was way too late," Kon admitted, his voice breaking. "Assassins were waiting for him when he got there. _They knew he was coming._ They called him by name!"

Damian's face crumpled into a mask of rage. "Stewart betrayed us," he hissed. "I knew it. I _knew_ he was a spy!"

Jason said nothing at all. All this time he had known that Dick would have gone with Roy, and that whatever happened to Roy would undoubtedly happened to him as well. Through some miracle of cognitive dissonance, he had managed to delay the realization, however. Hearing Kon admit Dick had been captured as well was what he needed to bring the two halves of his mind into order.

"How long ago was this?" Damian asked. "And do you know where they've taken him?"

"Little over an hour," Kon said. "And—"

Jason's glacial stillness evaporated. They'd had Dick for an hour? What could they have done to him in that time? Had they hurt him? Scarred him? _Broken_ him the way tried to do to Bruce?

The dam holding back his emotions burst, and all the control he'd fought to keep was gone. The world around him seemed to dim, and he was unaware of screaming in rage, "Fuck them! They can't take him!" He trailed off in an inarticulate scream and slammed his fists down onto the keyboard.

He didn't know for how long he ranted, but the next thing he knew Damian's arm was around his throat in a chokehold. "Let _go_ of me," he struggled, trying to get a boot on the arch of Damian's foot.

"Not until you come to your senses," Damian gritted out. "I don't know what is wrong with you, but even I know I cannot go after all of them alone!"

"Fuck you," Jason growled, finally fighting through Damian's hold on him. "You don't understand. You don't know anything!"

"Neither do you," Damian argued. "And we won't unless you pull yourself together and stop proving yourself an utter disappointment!"

Jason's hand dropped to his belt, thumbing at his pistol. "Don't fuck with me, brat. I'm gonna—"

The door slid open, and both men turned to the door. Jason pulled his pistol out in one smooth motion, and Damian crouched down, ready to lunge.

Alfred stepped through, his expression troubled. "I can hear you all the way from the kitchen," he said. "I take this to mean Master Timothy is in trouble?"

Jason holstered his weapon, but panic was still making it difficult to think straight. He wanted nothing more than to go after Dick and Tim and Roy, and every moment spent not doing that was worse than wasted.

"And Grayson," Damian added, straightening. "They've all been captured."

Alfred paled, but set his chin. "And you waste time bickering amongst yourselves? Why are you not working together to find a way to bring them home?"

Damian eyed Jason. "That is what I was _trying_ to do-—

Alfred stepped further into the room, and caught sight of the monitor. "Ah, Mr. Kent. It's a pleasure to see you alive and well. Am I to assume you have information as to their whereabouts?"

Kon nodded quickly. "Just Tim's. I, um. I maybe put a tracking device in him. Don't ask how he hasn't noticed it yet, but I've still got a good trace on it. I don't know if they took Dick and Roy to the same place, but there's a good chance—as far as I can tell, they were probably kidnapped by the same guys."

That was enough for Jason, but Damian was appalled. "You put a _tracking device_ in _Drake?"_

Kon looked up towards the ceiling. "Is that what's important right now? Thanks to that, we can save him!"

"Where are they?" Jason ground out. He had to believe they were all together. He had to, otherwise he was going to kill every goddamned person in the United States simply to make sure the Ikons were defeated.

Kon leaned forward and tapped on a few buttons. "Atlanta, Georgia. They haven't moved him for the past hour so I'm assuming this is the correct address. They must have teleported—it took about 15 seconds and there was actually a delay on the tracking device. How fast can you get there?"

Damian flung himself back down into the chair, and began typing rapidly. "Discounting the time to enact a plan, about an hour if we use the Batwing. We'll have to leave it in hover mode, though. We don't have too much by way of allies in Atlanta. Unless you have something, Hood?"

Jason shook his head. It was an effort to think normally, and even more of one to speak. It was a testament to his way of life that his mouth worked on auto-pilot, all while his brain was telling him to get his family, and to get them back _now._ "What else you got? We need intel on what we'll be heading into."

Kon nodded. "Satellite views show it's just a normal, three-story house . . . although it does look like there's a huge cavern underneath the bottom floor. Here's the layout."

Both looked over the topographical chart. Looking at it cleared his mind a little, and Jason tapped three points on the blueprints. "Where I'd lay bombs, if I had the chance. Bring the whole house down. But if they're underneath—"

"Won't help," Damian argued. "We're going to have to do this another way. But don't bother mourning the loss of your explosives. We're going to need them."

Kon looked worried. "Uh, you know that we want them out alive, right?"

Damian grinned savagely. "Oh, they will be. Our enemies will not."

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 8:49 PM**

 **Day 8**

 **...**

It was the sensation of something soft tickling her face that woke her. Barbara Gordon jerked upwards, her back aching as she activated the lower muscles.

"G'morning!" Chimed little Michael Wilson, who stood in front of her with a bright smile. In his hand he held a gymnast barbie doll, whose hair he had been tickling her nose with. "Time a get up, now!"

Barbara blinked at him, before her gaze tracked to Alfred, who stood behind him. "Alfred? How did you guys get in here?"

"Needs must, Oracle," he chided her. "We have a situation. I see now why we couldn't contact you . . . but at the time, we feared the worst."

"Feared the worst?" She asked, but before he could respond she glanced at her computer and saw 27 notifications all warring for space on her monitor. "Oh, shit," she breathed, forgetting that a toddler was directly in front of her.

"I have to take these—"

"It's too late," Alfred cut in. "It will be more succinct if I were to fill you in."

He did so, and by the time he had finished, Barbara's mouth hung open in shock. "They're— _all_ of them? And Jason and Damian went _after_ them?"

"And Koriand'r," Alfred nodded. "Although we only know that from going back through Manor footage around the time of the phone call."

"And Kon broke cover?"

"To save Tim, if not Richard and Roy Harper," Alfred said severely. "He could no longer be held him in reserve."

Barbara sucked in a ragged breath. She had needed sleep so badly that she'd slept through 27 alarms and the biggest crisis since Bruce, Dinah, and Helena had been murdered. She was never going to forgive herself if anything happened to her Robins, but now was not the time to castigate herself. "Shit," she said again, and then a thought occurred to her. "You told me too late to stop them on purpose, didn't you?"

"Quite right," Alfred affirmed. "I'm not losing my boys."

Barbara began navigating past her notifications, pulling the alert system she'd made for emergency situations. No one was dead yet, but someone might soon be if she couldn't warn everyone.

She removed one person from the contact list, and then sent her message:

 _Betrayal—John Stewart. Do not respond to his hails. Have reason to believe he has potentially falsified his DNA data, and aided in the capture of Nightwing, Red Robin, and Arsenal._

She did not specify a channel to meet. There were only three people left she expected to hear from. Two if Arrow was still out looking for Shazam.

She would wait for them to contact her.

…

…

...

Oliver was the first person she heard back from, however, only a few minutes after Alfred took Michael and made his way to the living quarters of the Clocktower. He wouldn't return to the Manor until his boys returned, one way or the other. At this point, who knew if it was even safe for him to do so?

Oliver began the call with, "What the fuuuh-lipping flip? John Stewart _betrayed_ us?"

"He led Red Robin into a trap without realizing Tim was being monitored," Barbara said tersely. "Before I was apprised of the situation, however, a countermeasure was enacted on our side. Just know that our numbers are down right now, and we need you and Billy back ASAP. What is your ETA?"

"Shit," he swore. "About 4 hours. I've got Billy," he continued sounding a little awkward. "He's uh, in control of himself again, but he's not doing so good. Sleeping for now, but uh—I'm gonna stick with him when we get back."

Barbara frowned. Shazam and Oliver hadn't been very close before the war broke out. What had changed? "Is he a risk?"

He sighed. "Only to himself. He knows what he did, even if he can't really remember it. I uh, had to think pretty fast to keep him from taking care of the problem himself, if you know what I mean."

"So you're telling me to stick two suicidal heroes together and expect me to believe that's a good idea," Barbara stated bluntly.

He groaned. "This is embarrassing to say out loud, but we made a promise to each other, ok? You've got nothing to worry about until this is all over. And I mean _all_ over. I won't be selfish. Not if it keeps the kid from making a mistake."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Kid? What kid?"

"Oh, that's—he just reminds me of Roy, when he was younger. Look, I give you my word that I'm not going to kill myself, nor is Billy, but I wanna look after him, ok? That way Hal and Barry can stick together—oh, and what's the word on Carol?"

And in all the excitement, she had practically forgotten Carol Ferris. She'd either defected or been held captive for more than 30 hours, and Barbara hastily clicked through all her notifications, newsfeeds, and security cameras, but there was nothing. There were no ransom demands. Either way, that wasn't a good sign.

"Nothing," she admitted. "Arrow, I need to go. I have to call Lantern. Goddamnit, he's probably gone after her while I was out!"

"Out?"

"Sleeping," she admitted. "I passed out and missed most of this."

"Shit," he said again. "Call him. Right now. Tell him to do what's right, not what's Hal."

Before she could sign off, however, green light flooded through the high window that looked out over Gotham. Barbara froze, expecting to see an enraged John Stewart . . . but it was unmistakably Hal Jordan who sat in the cockpit of a glowing green construct shaped like a North American X-15.

It was difficult to see through the bright green light, but he did not look happy.

Barbara's monitor buzzed with a new alert. "Hey, it's us!" Barry said, just as he poked his head out from behind Hal's shoulder. "Let us in, will you?"

"You have to come in through the Aerie," she responded, punching in the code that would allow Hal to dock. Less than a minute later, both the Flash and Green Lantern were standing in the computer room.

"What the hell, Oracle?" Hal challenged her, just as furious as he'd been 12 hours ago. "First Carol, and now John Stewart? You have to be kidding. Not everyone can be a goddamned traitor!"

Barbara let him rage, thankful that he hadn't gone after Carol himself. Barry had done better work than she'd hoped in keeping him from flying off the handle. "I don't know about Carol," she admitted, pulling up one of Kon's frenzied transcripts. "But we have recorded evidence of John leading Tim into a trap. Kon was on the line with him at the time, and afterwards, he had plenty of time to cross-check the times on John's call, and Roy's to Koriandr's, which was exactly at the moment of the ambush." Barbara pointed to the the points of interest, and Barry speed read it all.

"Oh goddamnit," Barry groaned. "Hal, she's right. John called _after_ they were captured, saying it hadn't happened yet. Koriand'r took off, whereabouts unknown . . . crap, and Red Hood and Robin went after them? How can they be so reckless?" He exhaled before finishing with, "Although Superboy's alive? That's great news, but I'm confused."

"It was a secret. He's in the Watchtower," Hal gritted out. "And so Kon's helping _them_ save your boys, but we can't go after Carol?"

"Hal—" Barry tried.

"Which way did John vote?" Barbara challenged him. "He wanted us to go there. Carol was always beyond our reach, one way or the other."

"Bullshit, Barbara!" Hal exploded. "She's not—we have _no evidence_ that she's an Ikon, and—"

"No, but she was very likely the bait!"

" _Is_ the bait!" Hal yelled. "She's not dead but she fucking _will_ be if you don't let us go after her, the way you did your little boytoys—"

Barbara lost all hold on herself in one blazing moment. "I didn't sanction it!" She screamed. "They left without my knowing and now I've likely lost _all of them!"_ Her anger pulsed bright and implacable, before giving way to sorrow. "Fuck you," she wept, her eyes burning hot with tears. "You've lost one person and I've lost five. So if you want to throw yourself away on a suicide mission, feel free. Let us all down. We'll find a way to lose without you."

In the absolute silence that reigned after that statement, Billy Batson's voice came through, quiet and tinny through her speakers, "Please don't cry, Oracle. We'll be back soon and we'll help. And—and Lantern didn't mean it. He just feels everything so much."

Barbara just cried harder. All this, and she'd forgotten to sign off with Ollie. She was a sloppy mess, and if this was the best she could do, no wonder they'd been compromised so easily.

Barry sucked in a startled breath. "Shazam? Ollie found you?"

"Yes, sir. Oh, but here's—"

Ollie came in, interrupting him. "Harold Jordan, get a hold of yourself. Carol is not dead yet, but there will be no way to save her if you can't pull yourself together. Barbara didn't have a chance to tell you this, but you need to do what's right, not what's Hal. You know what I mean. And Barry? Whatever you're doing, keep doing it, because I was dead certain Hal would leave you to do a suicide mission of his own. Way to go, pal."

"Thank you, Ollie," Barry said when it was clear that neither Hal nor Barbara could immediately respond. "But while we've got you both on the line, we need to make a decision. For now, we have to move forward as if we're the only ones left. That being said, do we send an emergency message to Arthur and Diana, and call them back home?"

"And John Constantine," Billy offered, glumly. "I hate him, but I'm pretty sure the Ikons don't have him. He's too slippery for that. Plus he is still using his magic."

"What are they going to do?" Hal asked, bitterly. "We're done if the Ikons take over Atlantis. From what I've heard, those zodiac crystals could reform the Earth's continents. I say we don't call them back. Only if we go down in flames should we contact them, and that's to warn them."

While Hal spoke, Barbara took in a deep breath that shuddered on the inhale, and held that breath until her lungs burned. She exhaled in a rush, and then she did it all again. By the third time, she felt calm enough to respond. "Let's wait until we know what happens to Red Hood and Robin. If they don't make it back, I think we should update Aquaman and Wonder Woman with everything that's happened, and let them make the decision."

"And Constantine?" Ollie asked.

Barbara sniffled. "Who are we kidding? He probably already knows."

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Atlanta, Georgia, 11:02 PM**

 **Day 8**

 **...**

 _It had been a long time since I've killed someone,_ Damian Wayne reflected as he withdrew his kris knife from the corpse of the assassin who fell dead at his feet. _Almost two years, if I don't count the time I kicked that ill-fated thug over the roof while Grayson was distracted. Otherwise . . . nine months, I suppose._ Now here he was, with four men dead and plans to kill up to eighteen more, depending on how accurate the heat sensors on his goggles were, and how many were drawn away by Todd's explosions.

They had reached Atlanta an hour ago, and as soon as they exited the Batwing, had gone their separate ways to enact the plan. With Kent helping direct him, Todd revved off on his bike, which they had loaded in the back of the Batwing. It took him nearly 45 minutes to procure all the explosives he'd need, during which Damian entertained increasingly dark thoughts about what he'd do to Grayson and Drake's captors. While he wouldn't go so far as to say they were his friends—he didn't have any, didn't need any—they were his comrades, and a part of his father's legacy. No one was allowed to touch them, not when they would someday belong in part to _him._

15 minutes ago Todd had given him the go ahead, and Damian had infiltrated the building. The first explosion, set a half mile away, would attract attention but not too much. Damian had killed three by the time the next went off, only one quarter mile off. Now, he wiped the knife clean after his fourth kill and waited in the shadows.

The next bomb would go off in just a few minutes, and that was when they would begin to scramble. He needed to get into position before they locked down the lower level, however. It was only two rooms away, and five assassins lay in wait.

Damian took a deep breath, and turned off the heat sensing goggles. He didn't need them. These were his grandfather's men—his _mother's_ men—and he knew exactly where they were, what they would do . . . and how best to annihilate them.

At the dregs of a silent exhale, he threw a shuriken into the corner of the room, rolling to the side in the next motion. A quiet, pained gasp was the only warning that he'd hit his mark, and by the time the first assassin fell to the ground, dead, he slipped behind another and snapped his neck. The third and fourth came at him together, but a well-placed kick broke the ankle of one, and a brass knuckle to the eye deterred the other. The fifth came when he bent down to incapacitate the third, with the broken ankle. Damian was ready for him, however, and jabbed backwards with his knife to stab him through the belly.

All throughout, his heartbeat remained steady and calm. His breathing remained even. This was no great excursion for him, and although he had allowed his father to steer him away from the darker teachings of his youth, there was no emotional or physical qualm about returning to them.

Damian's only worry was that he would be caught by the Ikons, but that fear had not been met. The assassins had not called out for help, nor alerted the rest of the house. They had been too well trained to secrecy, to silence. They were proud, as well. Up until the last, none of them believed they would be defeated, and by then it was too late.

After cutting the throats of the injured assassins, Damian moved through the room. At the far end was the door leading to the basement. It was locked with a code, handprint, and retinal scanner. Damian sighed. The hand would be easy, the retinal scanner possible, but the code . . . Damian wished they had Oracle assisting them. Judging by how she had subtly veered them away from going after Carol—which was the right decision, Damian allowed—they both feared she would find a reason to stop them, however.

It was perhaps the one time in their lives that he and Todd agreed on something wholeheartedly. They would not be stopped, and they would bring their . . . Oh, fine. In the safety of the confines of his mind Damian would admit it—their _family_ home.

Still, the way forward was impassable for now. He'd have to wait for the next explosion, and hope that another assassin would open the door in an attempt to see what was going on, or to secure the prisoners. Damian slunk to the shadows, knocking into the end table as he did so. This, after his perfect grace moments before.

He scowled in the darkness. He had grown two inches in as many months, and at times it felt like his body was stretching just like Plastic Man's. Although his focus in battle was enough to keep him moving efficiently enough, he found himself miscalculating his reach at the oddest times. _I hate being 15,_ he thought with more rancor than he did when he killed nine men. _All I need is acne and my teenage years will be equitably as awkward as_ Drake's.

The only warning before the third explosion went off was Todd's mutter, low yet clear through their earpieces, which doubled as eardrum protectors.

" _Take cover in three, two, one—"_

Damian activated the noise-cancelling aspect of the ear protectors moments before the third explosion went off. The entire house shook, and he was nearly knocked off his feet. Jason must have laid it directly outside the building, as all the windows on the east side of the house exploded inwardly, raining glass down over the floor. There were some startled cries, and a few yelps of pain—hopefully some assassins had been standing near enough to the windows to have been knocked unconscious—but even after waiting three minutes no assassins showed up to kindly open the door for Damian. When five minutes passed and the house was still Damian knew they'd all gone after Todd, instead.

He scowled. He'd have to do this all by himself, would he? He flicked back on the heat sensors, just to ensure no one was attempting to stalk him before reaching down for a canister of explosive gel. One of Todd's less incendiary toys, Damian had no idea where he'd gotten his hands on something like this. It wasn't one of his mother's weapons, it seemed more like something Lucius Fox would make. It was undeniably useful, however, as Damian had learned on the few occasions he'd seen Todd use it.

Tonight was his chance to play with it himself. The explosion had diminished the structural integrity of the house, and while the door held firm, Damian bet he could blast a path to intersect with the tunnel leading down. He scuttled to the far side of the door, kicking up a small spray of glass. Then, with a sound more reminiscent of that awful canned whipping cream Stephanie Brown put on her waffles than that of a deadly weapon, he sprayed out a healthy amount of gel in the shape of a 'R.'

 _R for Robin,_ he thought, hoping that he would find two elder Robins in the basement, alive. He backed away to the far end of the room before detonating the gel, and in the wake of Todd's explosions, this one was tame in comparison. It managed to bring down a large portion of the wall, and intersecting with it, the tunnel leading to the basement was lit.

Damian signalled Todd and murmured, _"Found a way down. Moving in."_

Todd's reply was the bark of gunfire, and a quiet, yet notably unhinged burst of laughter.

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia, 11:29 PM**

 **Day 8**

...

"Right, turn right! He's almost on you!"

Jason leaned hard on his bike, tires squealing as he drifted, cutting through the alley with only inches to spare. In his earpiece, Kon-El Kent continued his ridiculous and completely unnecessary commentary as Jason led his pursuers further away from Damian's rescue attempt.

"Jesus! Are you completely insane? You could have died!"

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda," Jason taunted, his reply muted by his red helmet. "They're not getting lucky tonight. How many are still on my tail?"

"Two crashed back at the last intersection, so . . . three. Two hanging back and letting the lead take point."

Jason gunned his bike, leading the chase further into the darkest corners of Atlanta. He had laid the explosions, and the last communication he'd had from Damian was that he had found a way down to the basement. Now all he had to do was lead as many assassins as he could away from the house so that Damian would have no trouble taking the rest down. After he took down these three losers, he could circle back, bring the Batwing out of cloaked hover mode, and help Damian rescue the hostages.

"There a block of abandoned buildings, around here?" He asked Kon.

Kon's reply was slower than Oracle's. Slower than Tim's. He really wasn't a backup kinda guy, at least, not one that was well-suited for Jason's hair-trigger temper, and seat-of-the-pants fighting style. "Uh, about a mile ahead there's a building scheduled for demolition. The others surrounding it look like they're inhabited, though . . ."

"Best we can do," Jason muttered in reply. "Direct me. I'll fight them there."

"But—"

Gunfire rattled off the side of his bike, forcing him to the side. "Shit!" Jason swore, but his luck held. The bullets hadn't hit the tire, although a lucky shot in the next round tore through his right bicep. It was glancing enough that he regained control over his arm, but deep enough so that pain flared down to his toes, and blood began gushing immediately.

Thankfully, it wasn't deep enough to keep him from retaliating. He reached for his gun, ignoring the pain and muscling through the bumps in the road. Glancing back out of the corner of his eye, he aimed and then fired off two shots. The second took one of the three bikers down, punching through his shoulder with enough force to shove him off his bike. If he survived the fall at 90 mph, then more power to him, Jason decided. He turned back around and swerved, just in time for another round of bullets to go wide.

"How are you still alive?" Kon asked, aghast.

"Not helping," Jason muttered. "We there yet?"

"2 more minutes. Baddie on right coming up from behind—"

So, the punk was looking to get lucky? _Stupid fucker,_ Jason thought, even though his right arm was going numb quickly. Time to use something fun. After sheathing his gun, he reached down into the utility belt, which was still familiar from his time as Robin, even after all these years, and pulled out a handful of explosive gel capsules. He really needed to thank Dick (again) for giving Lucius Fox the idea and even the chemical mixture for the capsules—which Jason had drawn up ahead of time—and then convincing the old man to use his magic to make the raw idea workable. Explosive gel was awesome enough in canister form, but as exploding pellets?

Fucking brilliant.

Jason grinned as he scattered them behind him, making sure to trail them wide. He laughed wildly when he detonated them. In the heat of the updraft, he could almost forget why he was here doing this. There was just the speed and the explosion and the adrenaline, and Dick, Tim, and Roy were somewhere safe, far beyond this sphere of madness.

From behind him there was a loud crash as one of the motorcyclists rammed a building head on. _Insta-kill,_ Jason thought, hoping the last enemy would follow soon after. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed there was still one opponent left, however, bearing down on him.

"How the hell is he still on your tail?" Kon growled. "He ran right over the explosive pellets! He should have been blown sky high!"

 _Unless he's being protected by something,_ Jason thought. "Fucking magic," he swore. "Either that bike is the holy grail of rides, or he's an Ikon."

"What are you gonna do?" Kon asked.

Jason gritted his teeth as he quickly surveyed his options. The condemned warehouse was just up ahead and if he could just get into position before the Ikon came racing after . . .

He had a plan. "K, Supes. Can you get remote access to my bike?"

Kon sounded frazzled. "Uh, yeah. There's a patch for that."

A patch? Jesus, bruisers were hopeless. "Gonna need you to man the guns on the bike. I need you to aim the big ones at the least structurally sound point in the room, but don't fire until I give the signal. Can you do that?"

"What, the torpedoes?"

Although he was being chased by an alien being that had likely killed his mentor, as well as contributing to the deaths of half the super-community, Jason found in himself a moment for scathing derision. "You don't know _anything_ about firearms, do you?"

"Of course I don't! I'm freaking Superboy! Jesus, you're an asshole. How does Tim like y—oh, shit, he's coming in hot."

Jason was already in position. "Do what I told you," he said, before whipping the bike around into an arcing stop.

"Well _someone's_ watched _Tokyo Drift,"_ Kon muttered instead.

Jason ignored him in favor of leaping off the bike. It was a truly impressive moment of acrobatics, particularly when his right arm was just about out of commission. The bullet had gone deeper than he'd hoped, and shooting one of the baddies hadn't helped. The bike arced to a stop, falling on its side. Jason raced into the building, hoping to God that there wasn't half a dozen squatters hanging out inside.

If there were, it was going to be a bad night for his conscience, because tonight he was going to do what he had to do.

First glance didn't reveal any civilians, however. Just a standard warehouse—depressingly empty, big cast iron poles running from floor to ceiling, a pair of rickety stairwells up to janky offices, and busted out windows a couple stories up. The back door was rusted through, and a hefty kick applied to the hinges would take care of his escape plan.

Kon's voice came through the earpiece. "Ok, got the bike. Now what?"

Jason was nearly to the center of the room when some sixth sense made him look up. There, at the top of one of the stairwells, was a figure that he knew well. A dark shadow that struck an uncomfortable mixture of rage, longing, and admiration within him, even after all these years.

Batman stretched out his cape, a flash of moonlight illuminating the bat insignia on his chest. Jason's breath caught in his throat as he started the glide down to him.

"Jason? What's wrong?" Kent's voice kicked his brain into gear. He raised both pistols . . . but did not fire. An idea formed, hazy but workable. He made a show of indecision, and aimed his pistols just a few inches to either side of the Ikon.

"Now? Jason? What are we waiting for?" Kon asked, frazzled again.

Jason was going to take this kid apart and teach him the basics of badassery and perfect timing, after all this was over. "No," he murmured. And then, because he needed to say it out loud, "He looks like Bruce."

"Shit," was Kon's helpful reply. "But he's not him, you know that, right?"

Not-Batman landed in a crouch that was so familiar it made Jason's throat tighten. He stood, and every movement was perfect, so _Bruce,_ that Jason almost couldn't understand it. This was how they had been so thoroughly tricked. The impersonations were physically perfect, and if they'd had any amount of time at all to spend on observing them, _learning_ them, no wonder the infiltration had been near seamless.

"Jason, stand down," Not-Batman commanded.

"Hey, remember how Tim and Dick and Roy are being _held captive?"_ Kon helpfully reminded him, sounding as if he were two seconds away from busting a gut.

Only a lifetime of being a stubborn ass kept Jason's reply firm. "Bruce, you . . . you're alive?"

" _No!_ " Kon screeched. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Don't advertise that," Not-Batman continued, seamlessly. He took a step towards him, and Jason took two back, reflexively. "I was able to escape and lay low. They are not as powerful as they believe, but I need you not to blow my cover. There are spies in the League, and I cannot reveal my survival to them. Come with me, and I'll explain everything."

That . . . was not even a good approximation of what would happen were Bruce to unexpectedly run across Jason in an abandoned warehouse. He would know, as it was definitely not the first time _that_ had happened. All the other times, there was a lot of hard words, simmering anger, and inevitable fisticuffs—and ok, Jason would admit, gunfire—involved. Bruce must have held out ever better than Dinah, because this Ikon clearly had no freaking idea who or even _what_ Batman was.

He was standing almost exactly where he needed to, however. Another step or two and the Ikon would be in the dead center of the room.

"This is the alien that took the man you love away from you," Kon said, low and serious, and an obvious attempt to bring Jason to his senses. It was enough to make him hesitate, and decide that no matter how fond he was of Tim, he was going to find a way to kill Superboy when this was all over.

"They missed one, you know," Jason said instead, stepping back towards the rusted back doors. Only 7 or 8 steps away, now, and totally a distance he could sprint across. He kept talking, merely so he could make another step or two towards the door. "Of the hearing devices. We heard everything that happened to Dinah."

Not-Batman hesitated, gauging whether the game was up. "Jason, _listen_ to me—"

5 steps away from the door. "Get ready," he muttered under his breath to Kon, thankful that his mask hid the movement of his lips. Then, to the Ikon, "You shoulda listened to the one wearing Ra's face. He knew to fear the bat." His voice lightened like the total shit he was when he admitted, "Believe me, you got _nothing_ on him."

Realizing the game was up, Not-Batman raised his arm, and a gun formed out of sheer nothingness. It was not a gun Jason was familiar with. It was recognizable in that it was a handheld weapon, in the loose shape of a pistol, but other than that . . .

"Now!" Jason yelled, and just as Not-Batman fired, so did Kon. Jason threw himself to the side as a blast of energy seared past him, tearing the back doors off their hinges. Before Not-Batman could fire again, the 'torpedoes' hit their marks, and the entire warehouse trembled. Fire and debris arced down from the blast points, while the poles supporting the building toppled down. Jason tore out through the doors without any further snarky remarks, ignoring Kon's muttered expletives when the warehouse collapsed inwards.

Not-Batman screamed in rage, and it was animalistic, almost birdlike. It made every single hair on Jason's body stand up. Against his better judgment he looked back. Not-Batman was swallowed up by the rubble, and Jason's last view of him was as the roof collapsed, trapping him inside the destroyed building.

"Ok, come on, come on let's go!" Kon urged him. "Get on the bike and get out of there. Who knows how long he'll stay trapped!"

"Yeah," Jason agreed. It was harder than he thought to watch something wearing Bruce's face die, even when he _knew_ it wasn't actually Bruce.

"You . . . knew it wasn't Batman the whole time, didn't you," Kon said more hesitantly, after Jason started to move.

"Yep," Jason said.

"You were probably just trying to get him into position, weren't you." He stated.

"Oh yeah," Jason agreed. "While we're on the trend of asking stupid-ass questions, you knew? About us?" He didn't need to specify. Kon's aggrieved sigh told him all.

"And I will never forgive Tim for making me look into why you were both acting so cagey. Now c'mon. You've got a clear shot back to the house. Let's go save them."

"You're on borrowed time, Kent," Jason said. "But yeah, let's do this."

...

...

...

 **June 28th, 20xx**

 **Atlanta, Georgia, 11:46 PM**

 **Day 8**

 **...**

Damian slunk to the bottom of the stairs. The room ahead of him was inundated with light, but no one was in view. Activating the heat sensors on his goggles told him there were four individuals moving freely behind the walls, ostensibly assassins. Additionally, one figure lay horizontally about three feet off the floor . . . and one about six feet off the floor, curled into a ball.

Damian narrowed his eyes. Oddness of the last's positioning aside, there were likely only two victims in the basement. While they knew that Tim was both in this house and still alive, thanks to Kent's intel, either Dick or Roy was not in the basement.

 _Shit,_ he thought in Farsi, one of his first, if not quite native, languages. _We were too late._

The time for stealth had passed. If Jason did not prove an annoying enough target, assassins would circle back to the house and Damian would be trapped with the hostages. It was time for drastic measures. He reached across for his shoulder holster. Jason was not the only one proficient in firearms. While Damian would grudgingly admit that Jason was the superior marksman, (but only because Damian was afforded little opportunity for practice) he would be quick to point out that they were in a league of their own. Once his beretta was in hand, he activated the modified silencer—another tool courtesy of Todd—he dashed out into the main room and then swerved left into the hallway, taking the first assassin by surprise.

It took only one shot, and there was more noise made in the assassin hitting the wall than Damian's gun firing. Damian made no move to hide the body. He was racing the clock, and judging by the less than skillful opponents he'd faced so far, he had little to worry about in terms of being overmatched.

As it happened, it took Damian only 4 and a half minutes to down the rest of the assassins, all without their raising an alarm. _That was a disappointment,_ he thought. _Led by an imposter or not, Grandfather's assassins should be better than this._

"Todd, are you finished? I've eliminated the enemies, and am moving to secure the hostages." As he spoke he moved back through the underground bunker, back to the victim that was, according to the heat sensors, lying prone only three feet off the ground.

Damian's hand was on the doorknob when Todd's reply came through, colored with static, but understandable. "Good work. Heading back now. ETA 8 minutes."

"Understood." He hesitated, an odd thought occurring to him. Should he tell Todd there were only two hostages here? No, he'd tell him when he knew who they were. He pushed through the door, crouching down in case there was some new enemy lying in wait . . . and nearly fell to his knees.

Tim Drake lay before him, strapped to a gurney cum torture table. If not for the heat-sensing goggles, Damian would have thought he was dead. His chest had been split open in the distinctive y-cut of an autopsy, and one of his hands had been sliced open to reveal the glint of white bone within the pulpy mass. Both his thighs had been lashed, and he was missing three toes on his left foot. Only a system of tourniquets and an extensive array of medical equipment kept him alive.

Damian swore viciously in Farsi, but didn't realize he was still transmitting it until Todd's voice cut through, loud and panicked. "What? Stop yelling about a cowherd's mother and tell me what the fuck is going on!"

Damian faintly remembered that Todd had learned several Middle Eastern languages under his mother's . . . tutelage. "It's Tim. He needs immediate medical attention. Get here _now."_

Drake's eyes fluttered open. He hummed weakly, but didn't open his mouth. _Couldn't_ open his mouth, Damian realized, when he stepped closer and saw that Drake's mouth had been sewn shut.

Drake's eyes widened when he saw Damian, but he was too weak to struggle. "You're safe," he told Drake, bluntly. He tried to adopt a professional facade, but he was unsure of how effective his efforts were. This was a surprise to him, and he thought it must be connected to the particular brand of torture used, for he had seen much worse, and it was not like he particularly . . . cared for Drake. He had learned to respect him, however. Perhaps that was why seeing him like this was . . . difficult.

Drake hummed again, slightly more animated this time. From his rapid blinking, Damian finally realized he had something to tell him. There was a scalpel lying on an instrument table next to the bed. Damian picked it up and showed it to Drake.

"I'm going to cut the bindings on your mouth," he told him. "Don't squirm."

Drake stilled, but his eyes were wide. Damian was careful, but he had to slice through a little of Drake's lower lip. The wounds began bleeding sluggishly when the strings holding his mouth shut loosened.

"Batwing . . ." Drake garbled. His voice was raw, like he'd screamed it hoarse. He choked, and Damian cast about, looking for water. He was a little surprised at Drake's choice of words, but Dinah Lance and ostensibly Father had been drugged when they were tortured. Perhaps his wits were scrambled?

There was no water in the room. Damian turned back to him and began cutting through the leather straps that held him to the gurney. "Save your strength. Todd will be here shortly, and we'll get you out of here—"

Drake made a clicking sound, like something was lodged in his throat. He forced another word out. "Bomb."

Damian hesitated. "The Batwing was outfitted with an explosive?"

Drake nodded his head before moaning in pain.

Damian frowned. "When? And how did they know where it is? It's cloaked, and in hover-mode."

"Doesn't matter. Magical weapon. When . . . you arrived. Why security . . . lax. Next room." Even this little was too much for him. Drake passed out, head falling slack to the side. Damian tsked, although it was more from habit than actual annoyance. This complicated their escape, particularly as Drake was in such critical condition.

"Todd," he said, activating the comm. "Don't go to the Batwing. It may have been rigged to explode. We're going to need an alternate form of transport. Tell our friend up above."

"What about the others?" Todd asked, his voice crackling over the com. "And I'm here. Wasn't followed, but I only just managed to shake off an Ikon. We need to get out of here now."

That odd feeling came over him again. To warn Todd? Spare him? "There's . . . only one other captive. I haven't seen to them yet. Apparently there's some sort of magical weapon here. I'm going to go check it out."

"Wait—"

Damian did not wait. He silenced his com and then moved out to the hallway, keeping low as he could. The next room over, which housed the magical apparatus keeping them here, was also the room with the other hostage. _If_ they were a hostage. Far more likely, they were an Ikon and therefore, an issue that needed to be addressed before he, Drake, and Todd could escape.

He took a deep breath before opening the door. There was a part of him that knew he was thinking irrationally, and had been doing so ever since he'd received Drake's hail. Coming home to find both he and Grayson, who was a force of nature and one of the few beings that Damian knew better than to cross, gone was a hard blow to his confidence. The world was not supposed to lose their lights. Else he would walk in darkness again, and only _Todd,_ who he hated for completely valid personal reasons, all of which including his mother, would be there to light a way . . .

He threw open the door, gun trained on the shape six feet above the ground . . . and froze. That was not who he had expected to see. Perhaps he had been wrong about their being an Ikon, after all.

Zatanna Zatara stared back at him, her eyes wide in surprise, her mouth stretched in a rictus of pain. Hovering in the air, she was bathed in a red glow that emanated from strange symbols that were burned onto the floor and the walls. As he watched, the light pulsed brighter, and she screamed in pain.

"Help me!" She screamed. "The markings! Destroy them!"

There was the sound of boots behind him. Damian whirled around, gun trained on the intruder, but it was Todd. At least, it appeared to be Todd.

"Gun down, kid. Where's Dick?" The being that looked like Jason Todd said.

"What did you say in your toast to Batman?" Damian said instead, testing him.

The being that may be Jason Todd frowned, but then shook his head. "To Bruce," he said. "And if it pisses you off now as much as it did then, your anger issues are beyond help. Now where the fuck is Dick?"

"Not here!" Zatanna screamed. "Jesus God, _please_ help me!"

Damian let out a hard breath and turned to face Todd. "We have to destroy the markings. There may be acid in Drake's room. I can—"

He cut off when he saw that Jason's face had, to use an English phrase he could tolerate, turned to stone. There was no other way for Damian to comprehend the change to him in just a few words. He'd gone from a living, breathing, annoying man to a shell. This, even more than his correct answer a few moments ago, proved it was no Ikon.

"No need," he said, without any expression in his voice at all. "Use the explosive gel. Take out the wall. I'll—I'll get Tim."

Then he was gone. Damian turned to the task at hand. It was the work of a moment to spray the explosive gel over some of the wall symbols, and to detonate it. The magical beam holding up Zatanna evaporated immediately, and she fell hurtling into his arms. Damian was prepared for her weight, but not for the way she wriggled out of his arms immediately.

"We have to go, now! When the beam goes off they'll know. They'll be here any minute!"

"What?" Damian roared. "We have Tim down here! Why didn't you tell us this?"

Zatanna hobbled for the door. "No time. Get me to them. I can get us out."

"You? You can hardly walk!"

Zatanna whipped around, her dark eyes blazing with energy. _"Emoc."_

When Damian found himself compelled to follow her without the ability to fight it off, he knew that not only was this the true Zatanna Zatara, but that he was never crossing her again. He was passingly thankful that English was not his native language, and that when he heard the demand to come his body only followed, rather than . . . anything less proprietary.

A sound from above caught his attention, and when he looked up the heat sensor goggles caught a dizzying amount of bodies swarming the floor above them. "This better work," he growled at Zatanna. "Because we're trapped."

They crowded around Tim's gurney, where Jason stood, staring down at him with an expression so fraught that Damian glanced away reflexively. When he looked back Jason's glacial expression had returned, and Zatanna reached out so that she touched Jason's shoulder, and gripped the edge of Tim's gurney.

"Grab my shoulder," she commanded Damian, and there was the sound of soldiers rushing down the stairs. There was no need for stealth for anyone, now.

Damian grabbed her shoulder. Zatanna took a deep breath, centered herself, and took a step forward. As she did so, she murmured " _ronaM enyaW levarT!"_

Damian had never travelled through magical means before, so he had no way of knowing whether it was typical or not. It felt simultaneously as if they were moving quite quickly and nowhere at all. The world blurred around the edges, and colors and sounds warped like they were standing at the center of a black hole, and then the black hole was inverted so they were at the apex. There was a moment of nothing at all . . . and then they were standing in the foyer of Wayne Manor.

"Hnnnghh," Zatanna mumbled, and collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Damian stared dumbly down at her body, more surprised that she had summoned up the power to teleport them all here after almost a week of captivity.

 _Desperate times call for desperate measures,_ he reminded himself, before Todd's conversation with Kent became more interesting.

"Yeah, we're in the Manor. I dunno, ask Zatanna later. We need Dr. Leslie _now._ Contact Oracle, in case we can't get through. We'll bring him down to the Cave, we'll hook him up to the high tech med shit down there. Yes, I know that's not what it's actually called— _yes,_ we know what we're doing."

A moment later, after Todd motioned for him to help him wheel Tim down to the Cave, "Yeah, Zatanna's fine. She's just tired. Well, no, I can't say for certain, but what the hell else can she be? She's only got two options: fine, or dead!"

"Tell him to shut up and summon assistance," Damian muttered. Now that Drake wasn't hooked up to the Ikonian medical equipment, his condition was worsening. His breathing was growing every more shallow, and his skin was turning an unhealthy pallor. None of this was a good sign, and unwelcome panic wound up his spine. They couldn't fail now. They were home, and Drake was going to make it.

He _had_ to make it.

Todd nodded distractedly. "A's at the Clocktower? Well, tell him that when he comes home there may be an unconscious woman in the foyer. Yes, I mean Zatanna. Jesus Christ, keep up Supes."

"Move _faster,"_ Damian urged. "He's going to flatline."

"No, he is _not,"_ Todd said, and Damian didn't know whether he was talking to him, or to Kent. "Have a little faith, will you?"

...

...

...

 **June 29th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor, 12:55 AM**

 **Day 9**

 **...**

Oracle's update was to the point:

 _Update: Red Robin and Zatanna have been rescued, alive. RR in critical, Z unconscious. No sign yet of Arsenal, Nightwing, or Carol Ferris. As soon as either is capable of talking, we will know more._

 _John Stewart and by extension, Shayera Hall have been blacklisted._

 _DO NOT CONTACT._

 _DO NOT TRUST._

 _..._

 _..._

 _..._

 _..._

 _..._

 **In regards to Barbara in this chapter—she has been holding up the super community for over a week with maybe 1-2 hours of sleep a night on average. Everyone has their breaking points, and I hope you don't think less of her for reacting in this way. (Upon editing, I'm not sure I went far enough. Doesn't everyone want to scream at Hal Jordan like that at least once a week? :O)**

 **Also, I have been very particular with Damian's dialogue in the last part of this chapter. He uses a word he doesn't say a whole lot . . . if ever. See if you can find it :)**

 **A shorter chapter, but I had to break this chapter into 2 parts as the next installment is nearly 18K. May have to break that one down too, but I'll leave that for next month's editing process.**


	9. Ch 8 - In Blackest Night

**Again with the title warning. Guess who is the saddest superhero this time . . .**

 **Also, my Nick Necro may be way nicer than comic book continuity would deem accurate. In this universe, he, Zatanna, and John ended up in a three-way relationship but rather than betraying them and then dying terribly, they just broke up (which sucks too, don't get me wrong.) This also means the Constantine got his trademark trenchcoat through other, no doubt very mysterious ways.**

 **Trigger warnings: Character death, after-effects of physical and magical torture, explicit homosexuality, sexual acts wherein the aggressor is not completely aware it is consensual (even though it obviously is to the reader).**

* * *

 **Chapter 8: In Blackest Night**

* * *

 **June 29th, 20xx**

 **Zion, IL, 2:18 AM**

 **Day 9**

 **...**

 **...**

Iris West's uncle Howard owned a cottage on the northwest shore of Lake Michigan, a couple miles south of the Wisconsin border. Hal remembered that Barry had stayed there three summers ago for a West family reunion that involved shots of communion wine and a pregnancy scare for Iris's 16-year-old cousin. It was there that they went now, as they had nowhere else to go. Just two hours ago Hal had received a call from his Ethiopian landlord—perhaps the one man in America who hadn't watched the news for the past week and thus did not know that Green Lantern lived in his apartment complex—who told him, rather sardonically, that the apartment building had gone up in an electrical fire.

 _The whole place is destroyed,_ Mr. Abebe had said. _We think it started on your floor. Hope you have renter's insurance._

Hal didn't, but figured that was the least of his current concerns.

Barry's place was still standing, but that was all that could be said for it. They weren't going anywhere near it, not when their enemies had undoubtedly just destroyed Hal's apartment building, and when they knew that 'John Stewart' was not to be trusted. Barry's apartment was either bugged, rigged with traps, or both, and so Barry had dragged him to the old lake house.

"The family won't be there," Barry had assured him. "They only come up once or twice a year, and Howard was adamant about not renting it out. With people still refusing to come back to Chicago, I doubt we'll have anything to worry about."

And they hadn't. Their biggest concern over the last five hours had been what to have for dinner, which was a problem solved by Barry streaking through a Taco Bell three states away, grabbing chalupas and leaving cash on the counter.

Now, Hal sat on the firm, twin bed, one of two in the guest room they elected to sleep in, watching the steady rise and fall of Barry's chest. The speedster had been flagging all night, but he'd refused to take his eyes off of Hal for more than the few seconds it had taken to grab dinner. He strong-armed Hal into sleeping in the same room, largely as he was afraid that Hal would up and leave him the moment he could. They knew roughly where Carol was, after all. The only thing holding Hal back from haring off after her was the fact that D.C. had been declared a war zone, and a kill on sight order was on each and every one of their heads.

(Well, that and the thought that Barry would drag him right back before he got more than a mile down the road. Hal was realistic about this. Even if he drugged Barry into unconsciousness, it wouldn't hold long, and then he'd be right back to where he started. The only effective measures of stopping Barry Allen were to freeze him, or maybe put the ending of the movie _Titanic_ on a loop, which still made him cry even after watching it upwards of 15 times. )

Still, this was the best chance Hal would get to save Carol, even if it meant leaving Barry behind. Especially as it meant leaving Barry behind, as logically, he knew that Barry wasn't going to go to D.C. with him. Not when the stakes had been raised, and they were down to four able-bodied heroes, two of which included Damian Wayne, who was a minor, and Jason Todd, who was a loose cannon at the best of times. The number would bump up to five when Ollie got back, and potentially six, depending on how bad Shazam's damage was, and if they'd even allow him to fight alongside them.

No matter what he had promised Hal, Barry would have to stay and help the super community. And now that the first rush of fury had passed, Hal knew that he had to do the same. Ollie had hit the goddamned nail on the head when he'd told Hal to do the right thing, not the Hal thing. He would be betraying his vows as a Green Lantern and as a member of the Justice League if he went off after Carol on his own, with no real hope of return or success. Now that he'd had some time to calm down and think, he knew that Barry had kept him from making one of the worst mistakes of his life.

And Oracle's last text alert had given him hope. Zatanna had been rescued after a week's captivity. Granted, with her magic she had a skill set that Carol had no access to, but that wasn't to say that Carol couldn't still be alive, as well. There was still a chance to save her, and maybe Tim or Zatanna would have useful information about the other captives, or their captors. It would be reckless to go without hearing that. He had waited this long, he could wait a little longer.

Hal's gaze was drawn down to the bed as Barry stirred. He mumbled something that sounded like 'probiotic samples,' and turned to his side. His arm flopped out over top the covers, his fingertips dangling over the edge of the bed. Hal wished with a suddenness that stunned him that they were sitting on the couch, watching tv. Then they could sit close and Hal could glean some physical comfort from his proximity. Maybe he'd fall asleep and wake up dozing on Barry's shoulder. Maybe it would be the other way around. Hal was not a man who would ever ask someone to just freaking cuddle him already, but he was clawing out of his skin for _something._ Even when it was something that he could only technically ask Carol for, but really, really wanted from Barry.

Annnnnnd he was done. He couldn't do anything about his wayward feelings, but he could control his thoughts. Hal heaved himself off the bed and padded out to the living room. He could make part of his desire a reality, and so he slumped down onto the couch and turned on the news.

For a while he channel surfed mindlessly, not really taking in the snippets of information.

"—bridge in London fell, today, killing dozens—"

"Is war breaking out anew in Syria? We bring military war correspondent Colm Howard to discuss—"

"Are you at risk for the Zika virus? Stay tuned—"

Finally there was a channel that caught his attention. It was a talk panel of individuals discussing America's current situation. Hal changed the channel just in time to hear a male, dignified, middle-aged African-American moderator say, "Superhero approval ratings have dropped to as low as 8% in certain polls. This no doubt reflects President Luthor's warning that the Iconoclasts are more likely to be deranged supers, rather than actual alien invaders. As per his latest speech, we remind the American public not to trust, harbor, or support any beings with greater than human capabilities. On the bottom of the screen is a hotline you may call if a 'superhero' is spotted."

Hal froze. Shit, this was escalating quickly. It wasn't entirely unexpected. The noose was tightening around their necks, and unless they figured out a way to remove the magical weapon, the source of the Ikon's immortality, the few victories they'd scored against them were rendered useless. Soon, even their defensive maneuvers might be impossible to keep up.

They needed to find a way to go on the offensive.

"All the heroes?" One of the panelists, a slightly younger Asian female commented. "That seems harsh. Not all of them can be evil!"

"There's no way to tell," an overweight Caucasian panelist replied. "But there are cities who are holding out. My brother lives in Gotham, and he says the bat symbol is everywhere. For them, it's a point of pride to stand behind Batman. With all his villains in jail, no one's gonna' sell him out."

"Gotham is a notable holdout to this law," the moderator agreed. "It's rumored that President Luthor has demanded what is popularly called the 'Batfamily' to be extradited to D.C., but Gotham refuses to comply. Commissioner James Gordon was quoted earlier as saying, 'With all respect, but if the President wants Batman, he can wrest him from our cold, dead, hands.'"  
Hal shut his eyes. All this, and they didn't even know that Batman was _dead_.

"Bruce Wayne and his adopted family are by no means super-powered beings," the Asian panelist pointed out, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear. "Technically, they should be exempt from the extradition law."

Hal's phone buzzed in his pocket. He scrambled for it, sure it would be something about Tim or Zatanna . . . but it was only Ollie, whose text read, _Honey, I'm home._

Hal tsked, but it was more from habit. He was more relieved that Ollie didn't run into any trouble returning to the country. _Everything go ok over there?_ He texted in reply.

A minute later, _More or less. Billy's wrecked, so I'm gonna let him sleep through the night. Apparently going without food or water for 3ish days will do it to you, even when you're a magically powered super-being. Who knew?_

Hal relaxed further. If Ollie was feeling well enough to be making sardonic quips, maybe that meant he wasn't furthering a suicidal resolve. Barry had been adamant that Ollie wanted to die, and Hal hadn't wanted to believe him. Hearing from him now helped settle one of his major anxieties.

 _What about you?_ He typed, hoping Ollie would get it. He was too tired to be more explicit than that.

This response took longer. _I'll be ok. I made a promise. Besides, I'm pretty sure Billy needs me. It'd be rude to leave him hanging, you know?_

Hal cocked his head. Ollie and Shazam were close, now? On first name terms? Friendly? When and how had _that_ happened? _Glad to hear it. But if you need anything, just let me know._

 _Gotcha. You still with Barry?_

 _Yes._

 _Good. Tell him I said exactly nothing at all to him. That'll teach him to steal all my best friend time with you._

Hal rolled his eyes. _You're weird, Oliver._

 _Only for you, bestie. But I'm crashing for a few. Talk tomorrow?_

 _You got it._

Hal settled his phone down on the coffee table before leaning back against the couch. The talk panel was still going on about the merits of hunting down superheroes, but Hal was just about to drift off to sleep when a door creaked open. The next moment, Barry was standing off to the side, vibrating with tension.

His obvious relief at seeing him on the couch made Hal's heart hurt.

"I woke up and you were gone," Barry said, only slightly calmer. "I thought—I thought . . ."

"I'm here. I just couldn't sleep," Hal said quietly. "So I tried watching TV and texting Ollie. He's fine; has Shazam. And he doesn't say hi, by the way."

"Don't _do_ that," Barry stressed. "I can't take it if you disappear. I won't be able to sleep if I'm worrying about you."

Barry had just found a way to give him exactly what he wanted, even when he had no idea Hal wanted it. Hal was a selfish bastard, and in this current state would take all he could get. "Come watch TV with me, then," he said, gesturing for Barry to join him.

Barry eyed him suspiciously. "You sure? I'm . . . probably just going to fall asleep on you again."

He must be remembering Hal's hissy fit the last time that happened. Seeing as how it had been barely a week after he had turned Carol's marriage proposal down, essentially for _him,_ Hal thought it was justified, if a little unfair to Barry. Now, Hal could think of many, many worse things than Barry's weight against his. Now that their lives were collapsing, there was little point in pretending otherwise. "Then I'll fall asleep right back."

 _It's not cuddling,_ Hal thought as Barry sat down next to him, arm to arm and close enough to enjoy his warmth from the get go. Barry turned on his side and nuzzled his head on Hal's shoulder, apparently too tired to give a shit about what it looked like. For a few blissful, stressful minutes Hal wondered if he could get away with— _should_ get away with—wrapping his arm around Barry and holding him closer. Before he could make a decision, Barry's breathing deepened, and just like that, he was asleep.

 _Well_ now _it's cuddling,_ Hal allowed. He picked up the remote, turned off the TV, and the room was thrown into darkness.

He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

...

...

...

 **June 29th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor, 4:27 AM**

 **Day 9**

 **...**

It was 4:27 AM and Tim Drake was not dead. This was what Jason told himself as he sat by Tim's bedside, watching the steady, methodical beep of his heart monitor, and the scroll of information at the monitor behind his head. It was better to reflect on that than anything else. Because Tim was alive, and that was a great thing, but it was now 4:28 AM and Dick, Roy, and Kori were still missing and there was no way to find them.

A part of Jason wanted to rampage like a mindless animal, but he couldn't summon up the energy for it. He hadn't slept in over 24 hours, at this point. Damian had crashed a few hours ago at Alfred's insistence, but Jason had refused to go down. He'd sat in the room as Dr. Leslie fought to save Tim's life, and he'd even given some blood for a transfusion. Tim was lucky Jason had died once. He hadn't been a universal donor until he'd been dunked in the Lazarus Pit.

Just more proof he hadn't exactly come back right.

Now, while Dr. Leslie rested in one of the guest rooms, Jason sat next to Tim's bed. He was afraid that if he moved away, Tim would die alone. Or die at all. He knew he was being irrational, but it was based on a long held, if abstract, idea. Before now, Jason'd had this weird idea that the only Robins that would ever die were he and Damian. The mean ones. The scrappy ones. The ones who weren't afraid to blow out the lights of every baddie in Gotham. Dick and Tim were the good ones; the happy ones; the rational ones. The ones who still thought life was everyone's gift, and that no one had the right to take it away.

They were the Robins who didn't deserve death. And even now, knowing it was ridiculous, he thought that as long as Tim kept living, Dick might too.

He remembered what he'd told Tim on the phone the night Metropolis fell, and Tim had been freaking out about Kon's safety. It had held Tim together, maybe it was what Jason needed now.

" _I believe in him,"_ Jason whispered, quietly and intimately as a prayer. " _I believe he is alive. I will not let this defeat me."_ He murmured it over and over, until the cadence ran together in his mind and the words lost their meaning. He kept on saying it until Kon-El Kent walked in through the medical section of the Cave, boldly, like he had a right to be there.

Jason looked over at him, his hands folded together, his elbows on his knees. "Oracle's gonna kill you," he observed, voice gravely. He didn't mention any ideas of his own on that subject. Dick wasn't here and may never be again. What did it matter if Kon had figured out what they were to each other?

Kon set his jaw as he looked over Tim. He was pale but determined, and while his eyes glistened when he saw the damage, he did not look away. "She can try. But this is Tim. I gotta be here for him."

Alfred stepped in, clearing his throat to announce his presence. "I thought it best that Mister Kent be here. He is very important to Master Timothy, after all."

Jason stood, offering his chair to Kon. One of his knees popped, and his bandaged arm throbbed. Kon sank into the chair like his legs had been cut, and hesitantly reached for Tim's relatively uninjured hand. The other was still awful to look at, even with all Dr. Leslie's incredible work. When his fingers wrapped around Tim's hand, Kon's jaw clenched tight.

"They aren't gonna win, buddy," he said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm gonna take 'em down for you. Every last one of 'em."

Jason stepped away, giving Kon a moment of privacy. Alfred caught his eye, and beckoned him over with a tilt of his head. Jason leaned down so that Alfred could speak quietly.

"Upon thinking it over, it might be best for Master Timothy and Miss Zatanna to be tended in the Watchtower," Alfred said in his impeccable accent. "If Dr. Leslie will consent to go with them, they'd be in a much safer place, with the best medical equipment the world has to offer. Mr. Kent could go back with them, and continue as Oracle's spy."

Jason nodded. At this point he'd agree to anything, particularly if it included a chance to sleep, kill something, or obtain a lead on Dick and/or Roy's whereabouts.

"But should the worst occur . . ." Alfred continued in a lower voice, "Do you recall the location of the Lazarus Pit that Talia al Ghul . . . introduced you to?"

In his grief and sleep-deprivation, it took a moment for Alfred's meaning to penetrate. "You want to—no. No, I don't. Even if I thought it was a good idea, I can't help you. She only dunked me in it once, and I was out of my mind."

"Master Jason—"

"No," he interrupted the aging butler. "You don't come out right. He wouldn't be Tim anymore. He'd be something like me."

"Is that so terrible?" Alfred gave him a look that was so full of understanding, of _pity,_ that Jason could hardly stand it.

He was more than a little relieved when Kon called out just then, "Hey, guys? I think he's waking up!"

They rushed back to Tim's bedside. Jason had the presence of mind to call for Oracle through the com link he'd never taken off.

"What's—Jason? What is it? I'm in the middle of something important."

"Tim's waking up," he said unapologetically, and then put her on speaker.

"Don't push him," she ordered. "I'm getting everything I can out of Zatanna. Let him rest."

Last Jason knew, Zatanna had been unconscious in one of the guest rooms. Trusting all that to Babs, he looked over just as Tim's eyes fluttered open. He groaned in pain, and Kon's grip around his hand tightened.

"Hey, bud," he said. "How're you feeling?"

"You're safe, Master Timothy," Alfred said, his voice low and soothing. "Be easy."

Dr. Leslie had painstakingly removed the threads that had once held Tim's mouth shut, but it was still hard to look at the holes in his lips. They moved soundlessly for a moment, before he managed to force out. "Jason. Where's . . ." The effort was too much for him, and he choked.

Jason stepped forward and reached out to touch Tim's knee. "Hey. Hey, I'm here. Keep calm."

"Jay—" Tim tried again, his eyes welling with tears. "I'm so sorry. They . . . Dick. They— _he_ . . ."

Jason closed his eyes. "Did he suffer?" He asked, his voice flat. _Before they killed him,_ went unsaid.

"One of the Ikons took him away," Tim said, more coherently this time. "For something special. About an hour before you came. Maybe less."

Jason's eyes cracked open, his heart pounding with a sudden hope. "He's still alive?"

"Master Jason," Alfred said hesitantly. "Are you all right?"

No, he was not all right. But this was better than the worst. "What'd they do to him?" He asked Tim, ignoring Alfred.

"What'd they do to _you?"_ Kon redirected. "What happened?"

Tim swallowed and glanced at Kon. Seeing his friend bolstered him, and he took a deep breath before admitting, "My Ikon hurt me the whole time. Looked like John Stewart. He didn't even ask me any questions, just kept . . ." He took a pained breath before continuing. "The one that looked like a severe librarian was with Roy, and for a while we could hear him scream. They left early on. His Ikon came in and said something about transferring him to a different location."

"And Dick?" Jason asked, through clenched teeth.

"Dick's Ikon didn't look like a human. It kept drugging him and asking him questions. He tried so hard not to answer. But in the end . . . Jason, you should know. He talked about you. They _know_. His Ikon talked about coming after you, looking like him. He told Dick the last thing you'd see was his face."

"What does that mean?" Alfred asked, looking at him, rather than Tim. "What's going on?"

Red-hot rage was bubbling up, insidious and powerful as the waters of the Lazarus Pits. Jason turned to go before he turned his anger onto anyone there, but Tim's reedy voice stopped him.

"Dick said you'd know it wasn't him," he said faintly. "He believes in you. He's not dead," Tim slurred, energy giving out. "Not . . . dead."

Jason didn't realize he was crowding Tim's bed until Kon was there, pushing him back.

" _You don't know that!"_ Jason screamed, out of his mind with grief and fear.

"Hey!" Kon yelled, pushing him away from the gurney."Calm down, ok? Your boyfriend's alive. That's good news!"

"Boyfriend?" Alfred asked, and from his tone it was clear he still didn't know what Tim was talking about.

"He loves you," Tim murmured, before passing out again.

Jason lost it. His uninjured arm went for his gun, as if it could do any good at all. He screamed in rage when Kon stopped him, nearly breaking his other arm in doing so.

"Fuck you!" Jason roared, right in his face. "Fuck you! _Fuck you!_ "

"Yeah, you're done," Kon said. Then, moving too quickly for Jason to block, his hand came up. Pain bloomed up from the back of his head, and then there was nothing at all.

...

...

...

 **June 9th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Wayne Manor, 5:00 AM**

 **Day 9**

 **...**

A scream rose up from below, faint, yet throbbing with pain. Wondering if they were under attack, Zatanna hesitated long enough for Oracle, who was looking at her though the computer monitor, to get antsy.

"Zatanna? What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure," she said, bringing her attention back to Barbara. She sat back down on the Wayne guest room bed, running her fingers over the bedspread. "Did you hear that?"

"That was Jason," Oracle said, her voice tight as tight as her pursed lips. "Tim woke up and gave his intel. It was . . . of a personal nature."

Zatanna's eyebrows rose. She hadn't thought much could affect the Red Hood now that Bruce was gone. Jesus Christ, she wished that Bruce wasn't gone. That was one of the things she'd hoped to God that her Ikon captors had been lying about. To hear that they actually had managed to bring down 'the Bat,' along with Helena and _Dinah_ made her rage flare.

Her anger was all that was currently keeping her going, so she held fast to it. It was a far better alternative than succumbing to the helplessness of her captivity. She needed to make them pay for what they had done to her. She needed _revenge._

"Keep going," Barbara commanded her. "You were captured in a mage trap while looking for Nick Necro, and then when they brought you to Atlanta . . .?"

Zatanna closed her eyes. The problem was not in remembering; it was in putting words to the horror. Her desperate shot that had hit one of them but did jack all, followed by hours of unconsciousness. Waking up in the small, dark, room, with concrete walls and no windows. Suspended in the air, enclosed by a magical bubble that simultaneously leached her dry and buoyed her up. The magical sigils on the walls, which glowed red whenever she grew too weak, about every eight hours or so . . .

The memory of it made her quail. _Cold, hard, and ruthless,_ she told herself, as she opened her eyes. _That is where strength lies._

"They put me in a room with magical symbols on the floor and the walls—I didn't recognize any of them, and believe me, I had _days_ to stare at them. I can't tell you how the spell worked, but it sucked away my magic, and then was supposedto suck the life out of me. I think it was part of what powered their magical pulse."

"How do you know?" Barbara asked.

Zatanna grit her teeth. Memories of the Ikons standing underneath her, directing cold fingers of their own magic into her, a crude diagnostic to answer the question of her continued survival. "They did tests. They were pretty damn vocal with the end results."

"Did Damian destroy it?" Barbara asked, taking another tack.

"Yes, but not the weapon itself," Zatanna admitted. "I was just a battery, and as far as I can figure, the spell itself was a converter."

"How did you survive?" Barbara asked bluntly. Zatanna was in no frame of mind to take offense. Any information she gave them brought them that much closer to bringing the Ikons down, and that was her sole purpose in life, now.

"I don't know," Zatanna replied. "According to them, Nick died in less than a day. Yet every time I hit rock bottom, the light would dim and the spell would shut down and they couldn't restart it, so to speak, until my magic had replenished itself." Her breath hitched, remembering the first time it had happened. She had been ready for death, and the relief it had tokened had been torn away from her without warning. Lingering at the edges of consciousness, she had been jolted into and out of awareness by the the rushed series of tests the Ikons had performed after, wherein they inundated her person with painful strands of alien magic.

"I thought they were doing it on purpose to prolong my agony, but they couldn't figure out why it wouldn't kill me, either," she admitted after a pained swallow. "Two of them worried that my magic would infect theirs, but the others argued that they'd found their perfect, fucking, battery."

Zatanna laughed brokenly. "That's when they started feeding me, and giving me water. They thought if they could keep me alive indefinitely, they'd be stronger for it. I held out and tried to starve myself, afraid that I was making them stronger . . . but I couldn't do it. I'm sorry, Oracle."

"Don't be. You were right to choose life. You did the right thing." While Oracle's expression softened, she didn't try and placate her with sympathy. For that, Zatanna was grateful. The last thing she needed right now was anything to make her feel weak.

"What else do you know about the nature of the spell?" Oracle asked, after a moment of quiet.

For all that her jailers had no compunction in speaking in front of her, she hadn't been able to discern the specifics of the spell. She knew her role in it, but not even how it connected to the larger spell, or the magical pulse. "Not much. John will know more."

Oracle's next question was hesitant. "Have you been in contact with him?"

"Not yet," Zatanna promised, darkly. "But I will be."

"Is Constantine connected to the Ikons?" Oracle asked. She sounded nervous, and for good reason.

"No," Zatanna quickly replied. "But he'll know. Or he'll find out. It's what he does."

"Zatanna, if there's anything else you can tell us, particularly about the others currently hostage . . .?"

Zatanna hesitated, thinking. There were days of her life missing, and during those times her captors had spoken over her, thinking what she had heard could never be used against them. But more of her time in captivity was inaccessible, and of those conscious hours, more were spent alone in the room, drifting in pain until someone came to poke and prod at her. Not could she trust the veracity of her memories when the pain grew too great. Only at certain stages of the magical cycle had she been coherent: the first hour or so was generally safe, and oddly enough, so was the last hour of the magical cycle, almost as if the spell itself wound down along with her strength. It was, along with her incredible rage and desperation, part of the reason why she had been able to use her power to get them all out of the basement.

There were a few things she knew for certain, however. "I don't know where anyone else is. I know they considered Atlanta to be their safest base, or at least the hardest to track—it's why they kept me there. It's sheer luck they left Tim there, rather than Dick or Roy. Honestly, I think you took them by surprise. They didn't think anyone could or would go after the hostages. They told me you had all voted against saving us."

They had taunted her with that. Stood beneath her in their billowing, dark robes and whispered that her friends had deemed her an acceptable loss, and that she would be theirs until the end of her days. Zatanna knew better, but the sixth time they tried to discourage her, it worked. She'd wept until her magical imprisonment forced her under, and when all this was over, she would allow herself to feel ashamed for believing them, even for a moment.

"It wasn't like that, Zatanna," Barbara assured her. She leaned forward in an unconscious attempt at proving her sincerity. "We had _no idea_ where you were for the last week. Carol is different. We know where she is, we just don't know if she's an Ikon or not. Do you?"

Zatanna rubbed her temples. They had told her about Batman—crowed over his defeat, as well as Dinah's and Helena's deaths. Nothing about Carol, however, and her disappearance was news to her. "I got nothing. None of the Ikons took her form, but apart from a few glimpses here and there, I only ever saw them in their black robes."

After a moment Barbara asked her more gently, "And is there anything else? Anything at all?"

Zatanna let out a bark of bitter laughter. "Well, you know John Stewart isn't who he says he is, right? Because they were gonna use him to splinter us further. He was planning to denounce Barry at the next emergency meeting. They wanted to drive a wedge into the Lantern/Arrow/Flash power bloc."

Barbara didn't look surprised. "Yes, we knew about him. I'll warn Lantern, Flash, and Arrow to steer clear, but I doubt he could do anything to pull them apart, now. But what about Shayera? Are they assuming her form, as well?"

"I . . . I can't be sure, Oracle. I can't remember if they ever mentioned her specifically. They talked more about John, Ra's, Bane, and Luthor."

"Zatanna, this is important," Oracle said, and her expression was serious. "Do you know of any reason at all why Shayera might have survived the magical pulse?"

Zatanna frowned. "Well, did we figure out Koriand'r?"

"She's pregnant with a half-human child. It's enough to shield her from the killing effect of the pulse."

"Then there's your answer," Zatanna said. She was getting cranky, largely because her hold on her power was slipping. After being under direct control of the spell for so long, freedom had made her feel relatively normal. Now that she was getting used to the feeling, her power was going all wonky again. Unless she wanted to travel to John the normal way, she was going to have to get moving soon. "She's either pregnant or an Ikon."

"How about—"

"No, Barbara, I don't know anything else. What I do know is that I have to get to John _now,_ before I lose all control over my magic, again."

"We need you _here._ " Barbara stressed. "Or did I not make clear how badly this war is going?"

"You need me stable," Zatanna pointed out. "And if you say John is coherent enough to hack your computer, then he can help stabilize me."

The world slanted sideways, and Zatanna nearly fell off the bed. _This is just like the time I got stoned at John's 40th birthday party,_ she thought. _It's only going to get worse. It's going to hurt bad, soon._

"I'll contact you when I can," she said, cutting Oracle off mid-rant. "I gotta' go _now."_

"Zatanna Zatara, don't you dare—"

Without turning off the computer, Zatanna stood. She keeled over immediately, only catching herself on the nightstand.

"You're not well," Barbara tried to convince her. "Stay here and rest!"

"Screw you," Zatanna muttered. And then, pulling on the thinning line of her power, she took a step and said,"!enitnatsnoC nhoJ levarT"

Zatanna closed her eyes against the world as changed around her, a mass of colors and shapes stretched beyond recognition. This was different than last time—had she done it wrong? Or was John somewhere she couldn't safely access?

 _Shit,_ she thought. _Didn't think of that._

It was too late to turn back now, however. She walked forward, and with each step hurtled further across the Atlantic—by way of airport, plane, a wobbling step in a field in the English countryside, and then, blessedly, John's living room.

It was surprisingly clean, Zatanna noted distantly. Did he have company over? Who was she fooling? John cared not at all for social niceties, and back when they were together, she or Nick would have to clean the apartment themselves if it bothered them. Sitting on the lumpy old couch was the man himself, replete with cigarette, and the signature trench coat. He looked only mildly surprised to see someone appear in his living room. When he got a better look at her, that surprise became concern.

"Zatanna? I didn't think you'd come by, unannounced." His expression grew guarded when he took in her bedraggled appearance, her no doubt wild expression, and the gaunt lines of her face—she'd only been fed the bare minimum for the last few days, after all . . .

Actually, that begged the question. Just how _was_ she still functional?

John stood up from the couch, dropping the cigarette carelessly to the ground. True to form, it fizzled out before it landed. "Are you all right, luv?" He asked cautiously, hands out in a gentling gesture. His power rushed over her in a cool wave, calming her, settling her. By the time his hands lowered Zatanna felt better than she had in weeks. She breathed deeply, and felt more like herself.

At the sight of his stupid, handsome face, and his stupid, totally merited concern, Zatanna remembered why she was angry. "They had me," she snapped. "The Ikons."

John froze, his eyes searching hers. "You escaped?"

"Red Hood and Robin saved me, but they had me for a week. A _week_ , John. I should be dead!" She shrieked, losing the line of her thoughts. "What they did to me killed Nick in a _day."_

"Nick _is_ dead?" He whispered, his face crystallizing into an expressionless mask. For someone who wore his heart on his self-deprecating sleeve, this was disconcerting, as it spoke to a level of emotion was deep enough to hide. Zatanna was too far gone to pay him much mind, however. She had been captured, she had been made helpless . . . and John had not. Now, whether he wanted to or not, was going to help her.

"I need to be beyond their control. How are you doing it? How are you _safe?"_

"Zatanna . . . "

"Don't take that tone with me!" Zatanna screeched. She knew she was being unfair, but she needed to be safe. Needed to be strong. Needed to be in control. "Just help me, John. Please!"

John stopped, and his hands lowered. He took a deep breath and looked down at the ground before admitting, "I . . . already have. To a lesser extent." His mouth worked as he searched for the words, or, judging by the look of defeat on his face, the resolve to utter them. "If you want more than that, you're going to have to agree to something."

Zatanna's blood ran cold. It generally wasn't a good sign when John got serious."What do you want?"

He chuckled mirthlessly, his face twisting in pain. "Oh, it's not what I want, luv. This is me being selfless, believe it or not, but if you want me to get you off their magical grid, then you have to promise me—and we'll be making this a binding covenant, don't fret—that when this is over, you won't seek me out again."

Zatanna was taken aback. That was it? No deal with demons, or payment of flesh? All John wanted was a restraining order?

Like he hadn't gotten enough of one with their dramatic, three-way breakup almost five months ago. Zatanna still didn't know how to blame for that—she wanted more, Nick wanted everything, and who knew what John really wanted—but when the screaming and spelling had stopped and the dust had settled, she'd been alone. While she had been able to salvage a professional, if strained, relationship with Nick, John had left her completely behind, save for the few, extremely painful dreams she'd had about him.

(In the one she'd had two weeks ago, they'd eked out a life together. They'd had children, and they had thrown a birthday party for said children with more screaming children as guests. She had a clear mental image of her and John hiding out in the kitchen, drinking shots of whiskey as they quietly discussed the merits of using magic to put them all to sleep. Afterwards, in a fleeting montage of images, they had taught their children pieces of their own disciplines, and watched their children develop powers of their own. She had driven a minivan, John had pretended to quit smoking, and it was so hopelessly domestic and simple and happy that Zatanna had woken up weeping, unable to cope with the simple fact that it would _never come to pass._ )

Dreams like those, along with her broken heart, had fueled her hatred of John Constantine. Now it might be cemented forever. But he had her over a barrel. She needed this, and he was literally the last person on Earth who could help her.

 _Nothing has to change,_ she told herself, even though she felt a lot like cursing him, spelling the shit out of him, and then weeping mindlessly in his dingy little kitchen. _We're not together now, and won't be in the future. He made his choice, and even though he's strong arming you into agreeing, it's what you want!_

Her pain was not enough to convince her of this, however. Deep down she knew it was not what she wanted, but there was nothing she could do.

"I accept," she murmured.

John's eyes flickered down to the floor, momentarily hiding his expression. When he glanced up again he was business as usual. "Well, then. Perhaps I should begin by admitting I've already laid the groundwork for the protection. It's likely why you survived your captivity." He swallowed, and now looked a touch nervous. "You, uh. How much do you know about blood magic?"

Zatanna frowned. "Nick told me some," she ventured. "But not much."

John smiled again, but it was not a happy smile. "Yes, well. He taught me some. We . . . Well, to practice, we um . . ." He trailed off. "Oh bugger it," he muttered. "We practiced on you. Once. For your protection."

"What?" Zatanna shrieked. "What the hell did you _do?"_

His hands went up, like he was an average man and she, and average woman, and they couldn't send a devastating barrage of magical spells down upon the other. "Protected you! We just gave a little of our own blood—charged with our powers and inherent protections—to you! It's nothing binding. At least, not both ways!"

Zatanna could barely comprehend this. Nick and John had performed a ritual on her without her permission? Without her even knowing what it would do? Christ, she wished Nick was alive so that she could kill him again. She would have to settle for John.

She stalked up to him, jabbing at his chest with her finger. "Tell me _everything,"_ she demanded.

John, faced with the wrath of a dangerous woman, began to babble. "Remember the night we experimented with the dream sex spell? You better, Nick and I were phenomenal. Not that you weren't as well, Christ, you were amazing, but—well, anyways, that's when. We mixed our blood in the goblet, you drank it, and we affirmed our intent by proving our . . . our devotion to you in the dream. We'd done all the additional spellwork earlier in the evening, when you were on stage performing your set, actually, and—"

Zatanna flushed, remembering the dream sex night. It had been one of the last truly good episodes before shit had hit the fan, as well as a stunning evening in a more carnal sense. "But what does it _do?"_ She interrupted him.

John stared at her, nonplussed. "I told you, gives you part of our magical protection, as well as aligning you to our own magics. Why do you think you can travel the way I do? I only taught you how after the ritual."

Zatanna sucked in a breath. That was true, John had only taught her about a month before they all broke up.

"Regardless," John continued, "I'm not entirely sure what Nick's gave you. It was personal, and I didn't ask specifics. Mine was largely centered on protection." Here, he grew sheepish, and couldn't meet her gaze. "I wanted to protect you from all the wayward magic in my life—most of it mine. If Nick made a similar resolve, it may have combined to include most magics, if not all."

"What are you saying?"

John winced. "You may not be able to be killed outright by _magic._ Car crash? Sure. Cancer? God help you. But I'm 80% sure —and Nick was about 78%, if that helps—that you are, in a sense, magically invincible . . . but not immortal."

Zatanna sat down. Right on John's ragged carpet. She crossed her legs in a half lotus position, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.

"Er, Zatanna? Are you still with me?"

 _Two more breaths,_ she told herself. _Then I can kill him. Or, you know. Try to._

"We were doing it for you, luv," John said softly, from much closer by. He must have crouched down, and was now whispering to her, in that throaty, husky voice that she still loved so, so much. "We wanted to protect you. You're so young, so bright, so beautiful. So bloody _amazing._ We were dried up old men, even then. We knew you'd have a future beyond us, and we wanted to give you every chance of enjoying it."

Zatanna had a flash of memory. It was of the mage's trap in the warehouse, the one made with the lingering remnants of Nick's magical signature. This was why it hadn't hurt her. He had still loved her, even to the moment of his death.

John's voice was closer now, and it sent pleasurable little chills down to her belly. "Zatanna, please, open your eyes. It's all right to be angry, but there's nothing connecting you to us. You're free, and—"

Zatanna opened her eyes and punched him in the face.

"Oh, bloody hell!" John reared back, hands over his nose. "Why are Americans always so violent?"

"You deserve that," Zatanna reminded him. "I am furious with you. But the Ikons are not going to wait for me to forgive you, so keep talking. How can you protect me further?"

John sat back up, keeping a good three feet between them. "That's—oh bloody hell, it's bleeding—that's more of a process. As long as you stay close to me you should be all right."

"I thought you wanted me to keep my distance?" Zatanna asked, bitterly.

John hesitated. "I—look. We need to take down the Ikon's magical weapon first. I have a plan, but I couldn't enact it until my associate reached your level of stability. Not that you're here, and he's almost stable, if should definitely be doable. After that, you can pop off back to your war, and I can continue helping out in my own way, from across the ocean."

"Your associate?" Zatanna asked, wary. "Who might that be?"

John stood, and then offered her a hand up. Zatanna refused it, rising on her own. He shrugged it off, and only looked mildly put out. "You've met him," he said. "He's sleeping off the most recent transfusion, but he'll be up in a few hours."

"Transfusion? You're doing to him the same thing you did to me?"

"Minus the sexual dreams part," John assured her. "He's a teenager. I may swing both ways, but I'm no monster."

In no mood for levity, Zatanna charged past him. There was only one other room in John's apartment, and if she knew him at all, she knew he kept his projects close. She threw open the bedroom door, and on his bed slept a skinny, teenage boy with tousled dark hair, pale skin, and a magical aura that staggered her.

Zatanna looked closer. "I _do_ know him, but I can't remember his name," she murmured. "John, who is . . .?"

John leaned against the doorframe, and for a moment the urge to lean back into his body was so strong she nearly did it. She remembered herself just in time, and clenched her hands into firsts.

 _I hate him,_ she reminded herself. _Hate, hate, hate._

"Tim Hunter," he explained. "The greatest mage of the millennia. Or, he will be, when he gets a bit older; a bit more seasoned. But he's one of the good ones, and I couldn't let the Iconoclasts have him, not with his raw power. You met him once, briefly, when I was first showing him about the magical world."

"He's so young," Zatanna noted. "A teenager!"

"He's 18. That's old enough."

"You're sure about using him?"

"No, but I don't have any choice," John admitted. "I can't do it all on my own. I need someone to watch my back when I make the deal." He shifted, and his hand drifted up towards her face. At the last moment he pulled back. "I won't lie to you, Zatanna. If I cock things up, things won't go well for us."

"For Tim and I, you mean," Zatanna corrected. "While you get off scot-free."

John's answering smile was small, and sad. "Oh luv," he murmured. "It _always_ goes badly for me."

...

...

...

 **June 29th, 20xx**

 **Arrow Cave, California, 7:52 AM**

 **Day 9**

 **...**

Ollie wasn't sure what woke him, at first. There was a crackling noise, but with a metallic depth to it. The incongruity of it tore Ollie from sleep, and he rolled from his old bed in the Arrow Cave, landing on his feet. Not knowing what was going on—were they under attack? Had the Ikons finally come for him? Where was Billy?—he grabbed his bow and a quiver of detonating arrows as he raced out to the kitchen. The unfamiliar shape standing at the counter made him relax.

"Jesus, kiddo. I thought we were under attack!"

Billy, in his newest role as shaggy-haired, acne-prone teenager, was attempting to make coffee with . . . what was that, a coffee pot? Was he sifting the beans with his hands, for chrissake? Where had this boy been raised, Guatemala? Oh, wait. The noise that had woken him up was a coffee grinder. Yes. That would explain it.

Damn, he didn't even know he _owned_ a coffee grinder.

Billy shrugged apologetically. "I wanted some coffee, but didn't want to wake you. I'm sorry."

"Billy, we have a keurig for that," Ollie groaned. "Stop making morning noises. Stop making noises, period. Go back to bed."

Billy glanced at the clock hanging above the fridge and then back to Ollie. "It's almost 8," he pointed out. "I'm used to getting up for school at 5:30. And I'm not jet-lagged, so I think I'll stay up for a bit, Mr. Oliver."

Ollie narrowed his eyes as the metaphorical arrow headed straight for his heart. Even Roy had never called him that. He'd called him Mr. Queen back when he'd first left the Indian Reservation, and only after had come Dickhead, Dingus, and even more devastatingly, Dad. Those days were long gone now, buried under the emotional rubble of one too many fights about Ollie's lifestyle, Roy's addiction, and his current career/life choices.

(Ollie stood by his opinion that slumming around with the Red Hood was not the best choice of action geared towards a long life expectancy, but allowed that implicating Koriand'r was an enemy just because she survived the magical pulse was a dick move. In short, he figured they were tied, and therefore should both go sit and spin, and then maybe get a drink after.)

"You don't have to call me that, you know."

"I want to," Billy said quietly, fingers sifting through the coffee beans. "I mean, I can't go on calling you Arrow, and now that you know I'm just a kid, I'd rather do what I'm more comfortable with. If that's ok with you?" He asked, tilting his head up so he could peer at Ollie through his fringe. He had definite olive tones to his skin and hadn't gotten sunburned, even after three days of tramping around the Khandaq Desert, which Ollie thought that was unfair, as he'd been in the desert for maybe an hour, completely covered, and was peeling all over.

"You could just call me Oliver," he said. "Or Ollie. I've been known to respond to both."

"You're also twen—I mean, kind of older than me," Billy pointed out. "Isn't it more polite to do it this way? Besides, I still feel uncomfortable calling you all by your first names. It just doesn't feel right. The matron of the orphanage used to smack us if we did that. Said we were being fresh."

Ollie blinked. He hadn't wanted to know that Shazam's upbringing was akin to _A Little Princess._ Now that he did, he kind of wanted to give the kid a hug. His mind boggled for a moment, both at the thought of giving Shazam a hug, and also at how quickly things could change. Just yesterday he'd been hoping he wouldn't have to, when he wept in the Khandaq Desert. Now, after seeing how Billy really was, and his visceral sorrow for Ollie at losing the love of his life, it kind of seemed like the thing to do.

But not the only thing he could do. " . . . Fine. I'm going to get odd looks from . . . well. All the remaining members of the League," he said with a spasm of pain, "But it's fine. Mr. Oliver it is, although I'm calling you Billy. Sound good?"

Billy flashed him a tiny smile, a mere uptick of the corner of his mouth. "Sure, Mr. Oliver. Um, do you want some coffee too?"

And now the kid was giving him puppy eyes. _He's imprinted on me,_ Ollie thought. _He's gonna follow me around and call me Mr. Oliver and give me the saddest faces known to man. This is my life now._

Somehow, the realization wasn't as unpalatable as it might have been.

"Sure, kid. But only if you use the damn Keurig."

...

...

...

 **June 29th, 20xx**

 **CNN World News, 9:00 AM**

 **Day 9**

 **...**

Patricia Barnesly, news anchor for Channel 5 News, was young, African-American, and obviously horrified; only sticking to the script with the thinnest layer of professional veneer. Later on, when cooler heads reviewed all the tapes of those reporting on the scene, it was decided that she held up fairly well. As it was, the hand holding the microphone shook as she gestured to the building behind her—the Pentagon. In front of it was a gallows made from gleaming cherry wood. It had been erected overnight, and was what had drawn the massive throng of people watching intently. A few were equally as horrified as Miss Barnesly, and turned away or even left the area. Far more remained, telling themselves they wished only to witness history, and not simply delighting in the macabre end for the three chained and hooded figures huddling at the base.

"Behind me are the first three victims of the Anti-Super Act, all found guilty of treason against our country and humanity in a court of law late last night," she said in a rich alto voice. "All three confessed to their intent to assassinate the President and key members of his cabinet. Michael Carter, Carol Ferris, and Theodore Kord are all sentenced to be hung from the neck until dead, and the chosen location—no doubt chosen to prove a point to their friends, families, and fellow members of the quote unquote supercommunity—is the newly erected gallows in front of the Pentagon."

Miss Barnesly took a deep breath. "There are notable absences from many of the Presidential cabinet, but President Luthor is in attendance, as is his Secretary of Defense, John Stewart, and head of the Department of State, Ray Ghulia."

She pressed a finger to her earpiece. "And I've just received word the first victim is ascending the platform."

The view switched to another camera located far closer to the gallows. One of the hooded figures, dressed in a white robe, was led up the steps by a grim-faced executioner. The executioner wore a helmet rather than a traditional hood, and it lent a modern edge to a punishment that hadn't been carried out in the United States since the 20th century. When he reached the top, the prisoner's hood was removed. Ted Kord's features were slack. Whatever was causing him to remain compliant—drugs, magic, or some other alien weapon—was more powerful than his will, more powerful than the scarab that powered him.

"Theodore Kord, do you have any last words?" The executioner asked, in a thin, reedy voice.

Ted said nothing. It was clear that he was incapable of turning his head to look at the executioner, let alone speak. The executioner looked uneasy. He turned back to the dais where Lex Luthor, John Stewart, and Ra's al Ghul sat, among other highly-placed politicians in the new regime.

Luthor nodded gravely, a modern day equivalent to the Emperors of Rome deciding a Gladiator's fate.

The executioner turned back to the silent hero. He fitted the noose around Ted's neck, and then nudged Ted so that he stood squarely over the trapdoor. There was no resistance.

The executioner pulled a lever, and the trapdoor gave way. Ted fell down the requisite 5.6 feet, neck snapping upon reaching the bottom of the fall. He died instantly, and his body swung slowly, the ropes creaking slightly under his weight.

The audience was silent, and for a moment, so was the news anchor. Then, in a whisper barely picked up by the camera she said, "Oh my god. I can't believe . . . I thought they'd pardon them!"

Someone from the studio must have reminded her she was on the air, for she attempted to look more professional. "And for those of you who were just tuning in, that was Theodore Kord, President of K.O.R.D. Inc, and the vigilante previously known as Blue Beetle. His crime was high treason against the government of the United States, and the punishment was to be hung from the neck until dead. And the next vic—I mean, prisoner is . . ." here she swallowed, and her eyes were glassy, "Ascending the ladder now."

Michael Carter's execution was precisely the same as Ted Kord's, down to his listlessness, and the quickness and efficiency of his passing.

So was Carol Ferris's.

...

...

...

 **June 29th, 20xx**

 **Zion, IL, 10:36 AM**

 **Day 9**

 **...**

At first, Hal wasn't sure what exactly was vibrating. It dragged him from sleep more surely than did the crick in his neck and the stiffness in his left leg, for it could only be one of two things. Either his cell phone was going off, or Barry was vibrating in his sleep. The latter was nothing special. Although he had fantastic control over the speed force, Barry was operating on an entirely different molecular level than anyone else now living. A little physical vibration now and then was normal, and just about everyone in the League had remarked on Barry 'shivering' every so often, particularly when he was trying to keep still.

Actually, now that Hal was thinking about it, he'd vastly prefer the vibrating against his leg to be Barry. In that warm and sleepy morning stage, with the warmth and weight of his best friend sleeping half on top of him, Hal was honest enough to admit that the thought of Barry moving against his leg was kind of erotic. Ok, it was a lot erotic. And—oh, shit. There he went. Half-mast and already beginning to tent his jeans. Even the discomfort of sleeping in said jeans couldn't save him now. Barry was warm and heavy and smelled good even after running around all day, and Hal's heart was so full he couldn't fucking take it. He wanted to roll on top of Barry and breathe deep, sinking into him. He wanted to kiss him awake, swallowing down any of Barry's confusion, protests, or enthusiastic agreements. He wanted to push him back against the couch and devour him until Barry couldn't think of anyone other than him.

Yet he could never do any of that. He was a selfish, possessive bastard, but he drew the line at cheating. He had Carol, who was a wonderful, amazing, beautiful woman. If he'd never met Barry, that would be more than enough for him. But he had, and he could no more stop loving him than he could stop wanting to stand in fear's way, uphold justice, and protect the universe.

 _No wonder Iris made me promise,_ he thought, and the memory of her was enough to stave off the worst of his arousal. _She knew I'd never stop loving him. No matter what I do, I just can't get over myself. Goddamnit._

"Hal?" Barry murmured.

"Mm?" Hal hummed. Contentment covered him like a blanket, but it was spoiled by the guilt that set in after. _This isn't mine. I can't have this. God help me, when will I stop wanting this?_

"You're vibrating," Barry noted sleepily. "You should maybe check that."

"Yeah," Hal said, more a rumble in his chest than an actual word. "I'll get right on that."

Barry shifted a little, digging his shoulder into his ribcage. It was uncomfortable, but there was no way Hal was telling him to move. _Ollie was right,_ he thought. _I_ am _an awkward tween._

To stave off this uncomfortable realization, he fumbled for his cell phone. Just then, his other leg began vibrating.

"Uh, Bar? Think you're vibrating too."

Barry groaned. "Get that too," he mumbled, and Hal, because he had the emotional self-preservation of a freaking lemming, did. He reached over for Barry's pocket, trailing his fingers against the warm flannel. He absolutely did not rest his palm on Barry's hip. Like the good, always prepared boy scout Barry was, he had his phone with him, just in case of emergencies. Hal shifted just a little to reach down and grab the phone from the bottom of Barry's pocket. It brought Barry's face closer to his collarbone, and he felt dizzy at their closeness. He hadn't felt this awkward and good since he was a teenager. Give him something to fight, great. Impossible odds and a failing ring? Sounds like Thursday. But put him within kissing distance of Barry Allen . . .well, shit.

What's for breakfast?" Barry asked, unperturbed by any and all of Hal's awkwardness, and Hal could have kissed him, awkwardness or no awkwardness.

Instead, he fumbled with Barry's phone before answering. "Whatever you feel like maki—oh _shit_."

Barry woke up quickly, lifting himself up and off of Hal. "What? _What?"_

Hal barely finished reading the rest of the text message before Barry had the phone out of his hand, read it himself, sped off, dressed himself in his outfit, and then sped back to the couch.

The sender was Shayera Hall. It read: _Need help. John's been taken by Ikons. He's still alive. Oracle won't answer my hails. Please._ Attached was a pinned google map of where to meet.

Hal was never so thankful that he slept with his ring on. With a thought, he sealed all the doors and windows of the cottage, leaving Barry frowning at him frustratedly.

"Barry, this is the most obvious trap any of us have ever sprung," he pointed out.

"It was never proven that Shayera was an Ikon," Barry argued. "And ignoring her hails is exactly what Oracle would do right now."

"And so you're just gonna go after her and save the day, huh?" Hal asked, and his tone was harsh. Between the whiplash quick change of mood, simmering jealousy that Barry was still a total idiot over Shayera, and the hypocrisy of _Barry's_ going after his not-girlfriend while Hal couldn't save his actual one, he wasn't at his best.

Barry stepped up to him, supernaturally quickly. His blue eyes were earnest, and the only part of his face Hal could stand to focus on, right now. "Come with me. If she needs help we can give it. If it's a trap . . . well, with you at my side, I've got nothing to worry about, right? Besides," he continued, "Trap or no, she may have info on Carol, Richard, or Roy. Hell, she may know where Ted or Michael are! And that's our priority right now. Saving our friends, and bringing them home."

Hal's throat was in danger of closing up. This was way too many emotions for him at any time, let alone early morning. "You're just going because you think she's hot," he said, because he was a moody 10-year-old jerk, apparently.

A pained expression flashed across Barry's face. He tried to offset with a little smile, but Hal was not fooled. "No, Hal. I'm doing this for you."

And that was that. Just as Hal couldn't pummel the shit out of Barry—shit, especially with this new ring—he couldn't actually say no to him either. "Let me get dressed," he sighed. "Make some coffee, and we'll go."

"Be quick," Barry urged him, shifting from foot to foot. He zipped into the kitchen, and the coffee maker began to gurgle.

Hal went to the bathroom to change and do his business, goddamnit. Afterwards, he stared at himself in the mirror, noting the bags underneath his eyes, and the greasy cast to his skin. _I need a break,_ he thought. _And a shower. And for Carol to come back, Ollie to keep his promise, and for Barry to—_

There was a quick rap at the bathroom door. "Hal, come on. Coffee's ready. Are you?"

Hal closed his eyes. Coffee would help. It was all he'd get, right now. "As ever," he called back, and then opened the door.

…

…

…

In the rush to leave, Barry tapped out a quick text to Oracle, telling her where they were off to. Hal choked down his coffee and let him take care of that. He had completely forgotten about the text message that woke him, and therefore did not open Oracle's frantic text messages until much, much later.

 _Urgent: Don't listen to the news._

 _Repeat: Hal, report in._ _ **Do not listen to the news.**_

 _ **HAROLD JORDAN ANSWER ME!**_

…

…

…

With Hal flying after Barry in his construct of the American X-15—and Barry going at a slightly more sedate pace than he'd prefer—it only took them about 25 minutes to reach the meeting point, a rooftop of what was, if the flickering lights that only highlighted half the name were anything to go by, one of the less successful Las Vegas casinos. Hal didn't have the presence of mind to pick up much more than that. Shayera Hol was standing at the middle of the roof, and she was surrounded by the bodies—hopefully unconscious—of at least a dozen, dark-suited men.

"Barry, we better come out of this ok," he muttered to himself as he brought the construct down for a landing. "Because if Shayera kills me, I am going to be so fucking pissed."

If Shayera hurt Barry, Hal was going to lose it. That went without saying, particularly as he wasn't sure how much Barry could hear when he was inside one of his construct, swathed in his power. Barry raced into the building, up the stairs and service elevators to reach the top. There was one fleeting moment where Hal and Shayera were the only conscious beings on the rooftop, and in that bare instant, she smirked.

 _Well, shit,_ he thought. _Trap it is._

Hal rose up a few inches, so that he was hovering off the floor. He always felt better in the air, even before his Lantern days. Barry burst through the door leading to the roof, and Hal had half a mind to swoop in a grab him before 'Shayera' could enact her plan, but Barry stopped at the opposite end of the roof, slowing so that even an Ikon could catch him.

"Shayera, what happened?" Barry asked, cautiously. "These are a lot of assassins taking a _nap_ on the roof. Care to fill us in?" There was still a harder edge to his voice, denoting that he was more Flash than Barry. He wasn't entirely incautious, or insensitive to the danger they were in.

'Shayera' laughed bitterly. "The Ikon formally known as Bane sent them after me. It's been a rough couple of days."

Hal discreetly floated a little closer to Barry. "Oh really? How's that?"

'Shayera' narrowed her eyes at him, and Hal suspected he had only a little time to make a move. It would likely be diving at Barry and throwing them both off the roof, but if Barry fought him at all forming a construct would be damn tricky when they were free-falling.

"Look, there's no time," she said. "John's—"

"An Ikon," Hal cut in. He was only 10 feet from Barry now, and if Barry would just catch his clue and move towards him all this could be resolved with no one dying. "We know."

"They have him prisoner," 'Shayera' stressed. "How do you think they got the DNA sample from him? Any sophisticated test would be able to tell if the DNA had been frozen or otherwise preserved. John Stewart is _alive_ and I mean to save him."

"Why?" Barry asked. It was so unlike him that both Hal and 'Shayera' double-took.

"Because I love him, you ass!" 'Shayera' shouted.

"Aw, shit," Barry murmured. "Shayera would _never_ admit that to me. Hal, you were so right. She's an Ikon."

Hal could have kicked him. What the hell was he doing, giving away the advantage? Hal raced for him, but 'Shayera' screeched with rage, and flung herself headlong at Barry, mace and all. Barry smirked, and Hal could practically _see_ him thinking, 'too slow.' When he tried to move out of the way, however, nothing happened. He had been frozen in the same way that Bruce and Dinah had been.

Barry's struggles grew wilder as Shayera closed in on him, her mace held high. Hal wouldn't reach him in time. He had to try something else. Throwing out both his arms for additional stability, he hastily willed a construct into being—a sheet of titanium, further powered by his desperation—that _thing_ was not taking Barry. The moment she swung, green light flared before her eyes. Barry hunched down, attempting to protect himself . . . and 'Shayera's' mace ricocheted off Hal's construct.

The power behind her swing forced her back, and she flapped her wings in order to gain purchase. Barry still struggled to lift his feet, but he was stuck. Hal reached him a moment later, and was just preparing a construct of an excavator, so he could just dig the ground out from under Barry and wing all of that far, far away when he found that his own feet were stuck the floor.

"Shit fucking shit!" He swore, and thought it a rather eloquent summation of the turn of events.

"Hal, get out of here!" Barry begged. "Save yourself."

As if there were any universe in which he would do that. "Can't now," he gritted, eyeing 'Shayera' from the corner of his eye. He could still feel the connection to his power, and that meant he could still form constructs. Did she know that? She was about to find out, and in the few remaining seconds allowed to him, he had to determine exactly what to do to make _her_ flee.

Rather than attacking them outright, however, the Ikon sauntered up to them, swaying her hips like she was an actual woman. "I suppose the game is up," she said, in a voice that was both like and unlike Shayera's. The tone and timbre were correct, but the cadence was wrong—its lack of tone marked it as something other. "Using this form was always a calculated risk. The subject died too quickly, and we were unable to glean a full profile from incomplete data. We did not expect to use her form with impunity for much longer."

Hal's anger flared. Hearing that Shayera had been killed so casually was like a kick to the head. For all that he'd been jealous of her, she had been one badass chick. She had more than earned her place with them, and he respected that. Respected her.

"Fuck you," he spat. "This ends here."

'Shayera' inclined her head. "It does indeed, Harold Jordan. I must admit, however, I am surprised to see you here. I thought our display would have distracted you long enough for me to take care of Bartholomew Allen."

"Display?" Barry asked, largely to get the Ikon's attention off of Hal for a moment. "What are you talking about?"

"The hostages," Hal pieced together. "Nightwing and Arsenal. Don't worry. We're gonna save them the same way we saved Red Robin and Zatanna."

'Shayera' shook her head slowly, and her lips curved in a small, self-satisfied smile. "Oh no, Harold Jordan," she said, and Hal thought if she said his full name one more time he may have to deck her with a construct, right in the schnoz, even if it gave away his connection to his power.

"I am referring to the public address this morning," she continued. "Or did you not watch the news?"

Hal narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing. Instead, he sent a tiny spark of green to flash at the corner of Barry's eye. From her angle, Shayera shouldn't be able to catch it. From his quick intake of breath, Barry had.

"Oh, you don't know," the Ikon continued, in a tone of detached curiosity. "I see. In that case, let me enlighten you. It really is the least I could do for you before I kill you."

With an ease that displayed just how long she'd been undercover, the Ikon reached down into the hip pocket of her costume and pulled out an iPhone. She swiped through the opening screen, thumbed through to an app, turned up the volume, and then held up the phone directly in front of his face so that Hal had no choice but to look.

Offscreen there was the practiced tone of a television announcer, "Pardon was not granted for the first two prisoners, and it is highly unlikely it shall be for the last. Gender does not seem to play a role in this new presidential administration. The last victim is ascending the platform now."

A hooded prisoner stumbled up the steps, wearing white, flowing robes that were impractical for daily use in prison. They were notably smaller than the helmeted executioner that led them up the steps, and then pulled off their black hood to reveal—

Hal stopped breathing. The listless, blank-faced prisoner was _Carol_ , and he was about to watch her die. He stilled as the executioner asked for her final words. There were none. The noose was laid gently around her neck, and tightened to eliminate slack. She was directed over to the trapdoor. And then . . . And then . . .

Hal still wasn't breathing, and dark spots obscured his vision. From somewhere far away Barry yelled ' _Breathe, Hal!'_ He did and his vision cleared just in time for the trapdoor to give way beneath Carol's feet. The rope snapped taught, bouncing her body like she was a puppet in a show gone horribly wrong. Her legs kicked once, twice. It was nothing more than death spasms, and then she was still.

Somewhere else, Barry was yelling. Hal could not make out any of the words, but he sounded angry. That was funny, because Hal was not. Hal was cold and still, and he felt as dead as Carol. Maybe he was dead? What an odd word. Dead. _Dead._

There was a different voice, a female voice, closer by than Barry. It was a voice he didn't like, and it made the sleeping beast inside of him rouse itself.

"What an interesting exhibit," the Ikon said. "I would have thought his reaction to be one of anger, rather than despair. It is disappointing, however. We had projected Harold Jordan to be a far greater threat than he ended up being."

The sleeping beast had a name, and it was rage. It was a monster from within him, born of all the injustices he had been unable to make right. All the pain and violence he had survived, and the fear he had turned his back on. It was a vengeful beast, and it was climbing up within him. Hal did not know what would happen when it reached the light, but the mental image of Carol falling through the trapdoor, her neck failing to snap on impact only made it move faster.

"Apparently I misjudged," she said, turning to Barry. "In that case, it would be best to do away with you, first. It shall be easy enough to slay him when you are gone."

"Don't you fucking dare!" Barry screamed, his face mottling red with fury. "Don't you touch him! Hal! Hal, wake up!"

Hal did not wake, but the beast within did. It had reached the surface of his consciousness, and it overtook his being. Rage ignited, and the power of Appa's ring tore through him, swathing him in a brilliant green light.

The beast turned its eyes on the Ikon, and it demanded vengeance.

...

...

...

 **June 9th, 20xx**

 **Las Vegas, Nevada, 2:25 PM**

 **Day 9**

 **...**

Barry didn't know what the hell was going on, but he knew it wasn't good. One moment Hal had been _gone_ , no sense of self at all in his dark eyes. He had tried to bring him back, all the while knowing there was no way he could get through to Hal when he'd just been forced to watch what he inferred—he hadn't been able to see the screen—was Carol's execution.

The next moment, Hal was inundated with a light so bright that both Barry and the Ikon had to shield their eyes. Power was rolling off of him in _waves,_ and something about it must have snapped the Ikon's control on both of them, because Barry could move again. So could Hal, who took advantage of the Ikon's stumble backwards to fly towards her, bringing back his arm, fashioning a pair of brass knuckles, and punching her so hard in the face that Barry could hear bones breaking.

The Ikon screeched, an unearthly, birdlike cry. Barry took advantage to zip by and steal the mace, even though he was fairly sure she was just as deadly without it. In his next step he kicked out the back of her kneecaps, bringing her down to her knees. Hal reached back his arm and formed a construct of a rocket, aiming it at the Ikon. Barry raced to the side as Hal threw the rocket forward, but just before the green rocket reached her, the Ikon blurred. As the rocket hit down, blowing a hole the size of a minivan in the roof of the casino, the Ikon was at the far edge of the roof. Before the dust and fist-sized chunks of concrete had fallen back down, she was gone.

That . . . could have gone worse. Seeing as how the Ikons were immortal—but apparently not invincible—that could have gone far, far worse. But they had to get out of here. The property damage alone was daunting, especially when they were all being hunted by every level of law enforcement in the U.S.

"Hal, come on, we have to go—" Barry turned back to Hal and cut off. This . . . wasn't Hal. It was his body, and it wasn't an Ikon or anything, but it also wasn't _Hal._ It was the husk of him, his physical form without any of the warmth, intelligence, or maddeningly insensitive sense of humor that Hal had going for him. A husk that was still inundated with power, and was bearing down on Barry with an alarmingly violent look in his eye.

His eyes that were glowing with an eerie green light, similar to yet different than the color of his ring. _Oh, that's not good,_ Barry thought. _Oh that is very not good._ Hal's rage and new ring had given him the power to hurt an Ikon, but Hal had gone so deep that he could not longer differentiate friend and foe. That was bad enough for someone superpowered, like Barry, but if someone normal ran across them . . .

. . . Like the police SWAT team that would undoubtedly come for them—if they hadn't arrived already? A good chunk of the roof was gone, and there was no hiding the fact that super-powered being had been the cause. Hal would rip through them like tissue paper. Barry had to get him out of here. Now.

"Wanna' fight me, Hal? Then catch me if you can," He taunted him. Dropping Shayera's mace, he turned around and wiggled his rear, for good measure. He wasn't exactly sure what would get through to him, and he needed to be the most obvious target since the Shayera lookalike. At half speed, he took off across the roof, leaping across the distance to the corresponding floor of the car park. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that Hal was hot in pursuit, flying after him with no construct to aid him. He bored down on him, haloed in green light, his expression grim.

 _Time to go,_ Barry decided, and then raced down the car park, and through main streets. Barry had never been to Las Vegas before, and it was a little weird to be here at midday. He'd always imagined it as a midnight sort of place, and—

A bolt of green energy tore through the sidewalk, directly to his left. Hal was sending projectiles towards him, and gaining all the while. Shit, he was a lost closer than Barry'd thought. Barry upped the speed, but not so much that Hal couldn't follow. They were well out of the city proper, and almost out of the city limits. Soon there would be nothing but desert, and—

With an unexpected burst of speed, Hal tackled him from behind, sending them both skidding across the concrete and into a crumbling stone building, long abandoned and covered in graffiti. Barry's suit took most of the damage, although his shoulders took a fair bit from being thrown through a freaking wall, crumbling away or no. He squirmed like a fish to get out of Hal's hold, and as soon as he did, he went to business.

He rained down punches on Hal's chest, kicking high enough to disrupt the mostly-formed construct of a baseball bat that Hal was forming. Thankfully, Hal seemed more intent on physically grappling with him than sending projectiles after him. Hal gave as good as he took— _better_ than he took, thanks to the souped up ring—and finally, after Barry took a hit to the solar plexus that made him wheeze and race away to one of the corners of the room, he realized this might be too much for him to handle.

"Hal, buddy, you gotta come back," Barry begged. One of Hal's punches had clocked him right on the jaw, and it hurt to speak. "Please."

Hal charged him. His eyes were still glowing green, and his face was as inexpressive as before. At the end of the his rope, Barry did the only thing he could think of.

Barry raced around him, keeping away until he could find the opening he needed. "In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight," Barry recited, hoping that Hal's mantra, the Green Lantern code, would get through to him when nothing else would. "Let those who worship evil's might, beware my power, Green Lantern's light!"

Hal staggered, and his punch went wide. One of his hands went to his head, and the green light in his eyes dimmed, before flaring up again.

Time to press the advantage. "In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight—"

Hal groaned, and it was the first coherent sound he'd made since he'd watched Carol's execution.

"Let those who worship evil's might—"

Hal clutched his head, hunching over in what looked like pain.

"Beware my power—"

Hal head picked up, his unnaturally green eyes opened wide. His features were twisted in agony, and Barry could almost see the emotional dam breaking.

"Green Lantern's Light!"

The green flickered out of his eyes, and Hal screamed. He fell to his knees, fighting for breath. Barry was there in a heartbeat, struggling to lift Hal in a fireman's carry.

"Hold onto me," he ordered, and by some unexpected miracle, Hal did. Barry raced through several states at breakneck speed. It took him a little under two minutes to arrive back at the lake house in Zion, IL, and by that point, Hal's whole body was shaking. Barry laid him out carefully on the bed in the master bedroom, terrified that some new horror was about to unleash itself, and then froze.

Hal was weeping. Big, wracking sobs that shook his frame and wet his cheeks and reddened his eyes. He curled into a ball on the bed; a 6'2", 210 lb superhero sobbing like a child. That, of all the things that had happened in the past 24 hours, was what tipped Barry over the edge. Without thinking about it further, he lay down next to Hal on the bed and wrapped his arms around him. Hal turned to him, burrowing in even closer than they'd been last night.

Barry had thought their earlier fight reminiscent of the night in the field after Iris had died. Now, he knew better. _This_ was the same, was no different at all except this bed was more comfortable than newly-tilled earth. He held him tightly for a long, long time. Only when Hal's tears began to taper did Barry bring one of his hands away from Hal's back. He removed Hal's domino, unneeded now that their identities were known, but it was a force of habit for him. He carded his fingers through Hal's hair, rubbing his fingernails against his scalp in an effort to soothe him.

After only a few minutes, Hal sucked in a hitching breath and mumbled into Barry's collarbone, "I—I lost control."

Barry's fingers hesitated before going back into their circular pattern. "You got it back. No harm done, Hal."

Hal breathed out, a stream of hot breath against Barry's neck that seeped through his costume. His whole body was burning with Hal in his arms, and right now, with his emotions running high and his barriers down, that seemed less like a bad thing, and more like a necessary thing.

"What if I lose it again?" Hal whispered.

Barry tightened his arm around him. His heart was full, and after sleeping with Hal on the couch last night, and fearing the loss of him the whole day before hand, he had a better idea of why that was. Remembering what Hal had said after Iris had died, the words sprang to his lips, unbidden. "Then come at _me._ Do what you're gonna do. I'll let you do anything, because I love you, Hal, and I can't lose you."

There was a breathless moment in which Barry realized what he said, and Hal went still as stone in his arms. _Oh holy shit,_ Barry thought, rather than any number of more helpful sentences that might save this situation; might convince Hal that it wasn't _that_ kind of love, not _necessarily,_ and—

Hal surged up and out of his arms so that he loomed over Barry on the bed. His expression was wild, and Barry almost thought he saw a flash of green lighting up his dark eyes. And even though Barry's immediate self-preservation relied on him opening his mouth and finding the words that would appease Hal, he could find none of them. For that was the crux of it: he had invited Hal to take it all out on him, and he had done so out of love.

"Do you mean that?" Hal gritted out.

Barry still couldn't tell what his expression heralded. Was he about to be punched in the face? Slammed with a construct? Mocked? Cried on? It didn't matter because this was Hal, and somewhere along the line Barry had up and fallen in love with him.

God help him, but he was in love with his stubborn, emotionally unavailable, total asshole of a best friend.

"Yeah," he said, with a small, pained smile. "I absolutely do."

Hal stared at him for a moment more, his eyes blazing, his cheeks still wet from tears. Then, in a movement Barry could hardly comprehend until it was completed, Hal lowered himself down onto his forearms, leaned forward, and kissed him.

For one panicked moment, Barry froze. Here Hal was, kissing him frantically, as if his life and sanity depended on it. His mouth was hot and open and searching, and it made Barry's heart stutter in his chest. He could hardly breathe let alone return Hal's ardor, but when Hal broke the kiss to stare down at him, his eyes wide and expression panicked, Barry found himself reaching up for his face and pulling him right back down.

Now Barry kissed him in earnest, infected by the same desperation that drove Hal. This was an open-mouthed, desperate, messy kiss; so different than kissing Iris, or any other of his previous girlfriends. Hal's mouth seemed so big in comparison, his jaw so strong, his scent so masculine. The scrape of stubble at the edges of the kiss made shivery delight quiver in Barry's stomach, as did the hard planes of Hal's body above his, and the assurance with which Hal licked into his mouth.

Barry moaned into the kiss when Hal slid his tongue along his. He retaliated by nipping Hal's lower lip, so soft and surprisingly full for a man who spent three-quarters of his day either scowling or yelling at people. Barry brought his hands down Hal's chest, a little dizzy at the pace. The hurtle from friends to lovers was breathless, but Barry's libido seemed to have no problem catching up. His cock was straining against his uniform, and when he brought his hands to Hal's hips, the give of Hal's uniform against Barry's thumbs revealed that Hal was just as on board.

Hal pulled back and exhaled roughly. "Jesus, Bar. You don't know . . . I gotta—" Before he could complete a coherent sentence, he was back down upon him, kissing him once, twice. "Take off your uniform."

Barry's heart stuttered again, and he felt a little like he had when he'd lost his virginity, back during his freshman year of college. _It wasn't too dissimilar_ , he thought, a little wildly. _It's just my virginity to a guy. Is that a thing? Jesus. Is now._

But this was moving too fast, wasn't it? And on the wings of such incredible heartbreak . . . "Hal, are you sure?"

"Do it," Hal commanded, his voice dropping down a fifth to the authoritative tone that had made Barry shiver once or twice even before now. As it was, he found himself shimmying out of his uniform—no easy task when Hal refused to move away, even for a moment. When he was in nothing but his undershirt and boxer-briefs, he looked up to see Hal's eyes darken even further.

"God, you're—" Hal gritted out, back to speaking in incomplete sentences. "Barry," he muttered, before leaning back down. He brought his mouth to the side of Barry's neck, licking before he sucked.

"That's my name," Barry quipped weakly as Hal kissed up to his ear. When Hal closed his mouth around Barry's earlobe and tugged, his head fell back onto the pillows. He reached out for Hal's shoulders, frustrated that he couldn't touch his skin. Sure, his domino was off, but he wanted to feel him, skin to skin.

"Hal, take your clothes off," Barry moaned as Hal laid down a wet, sucking kiss at the juncture of Barry's shoulder and neck. "Hal, I wanna touch you."

Hal's arms quivered. "Gotta keep kissing you," he muttered. "Gonna kiss you all over, Bar."

And Barry was done. He needed Hal naked _now,_ and he wasn't the fastest man alive for nothing. It was a thankful thing he was fairly well-acquainted with Hal's uniform from all their years of fighting crime together. It was the work of half a minute, literally, to divest him of it. It did have the side effect of keeping Hal's mouth away from him, but it would be worth it to see him, to feel him, to be about to touch _him._

 _I have never touched anyone else's cock in my life. How on earth can I be so excited about the prospect now?_ Barry thought wildly. But he couldn't deny the arousal that coiled in him at the thought of Hal's body against his. It didn't matter that he had zero previous experience with men. This was Hal, and that was more than enough.

When Barry finished, they were no longer the Flash and Green Lantern. They were just two men on a bed, nearly naked, and completely aroused. They stared at each other for a moment before reaching for each other again, mouths meeting in a wet kiss. Barry wanted to give Hal some of the attention he'd given him, but Hal had other ideas. He pulled off Barry's undershirt before pushing him back against the mattress, perpendicular to the pillows. He then proceeded to lay a trail of slow, wet kisses down Barry's abdomen, making Barry squirm when he licked along his hip bones.

Was he . . . ? No, he couldn't. No matter the madness that had taken them, there was no way straight-as-an-arrow, heterosexual ladies' man Hal Jordan was going to continue this trajectory to his cock. In this Barry was proven wrong, however. Hal made his way steadily to the waistband of Barry's boxer-briefs. In a show of his strength, he hoisted up Barry's hips and yanked his boxer-briefs down.

Barry hissed as his cock bounced free. The sound Hal made was far more appreciative, and it soothed most of the anxiety attached to another guy staring at his Little Barry. Girls didn't have this, as far as Barry knew. They were far too sensible. But guys got a little funny about other guys' equipment, and Barry knew for a fact that Hal was larger than him, due to a few covert glances in the locker room in the Watchtower, and the one time Hal had stroked himself with the bathroom door accidentally left open while Barry had been over at his apartment.

None of that seemed to matter to Hal. He zeroed in on Barry's cock with a flattering amount of focus. Resting on his elbow, Hal reached over and pumped Barry's cock confidently, not exploratively, as Barry would have done. There was not an instant of hesitation, and Barry wondered what that meant about his preconceived notions about Hal's staunch heterosexuality, and perhaps his own. Then, just when Barry had wrapped his mind around the tip of this iceberg— _Hal's hand is on my cock. He's jacking me off, Jesus Christ—_ Hal upended his sanity entirely by leaning down, and taking the mushroom head of Barry's penis into his mouth.

Barry moaned loudly. Nope, nope; he was never going to get over this. Hal with his eyes closed, lathing Barry's cock with his tongue. His cheeks hollowing as he sucked Barry's cock into his mouth. To say nothing of the heat of Hal's mouth, how big it was, yet how careful he was not to scrape his teeth against Barry's throbbing cock.

He couldn't take his eyes off him. Nor could he remove his hands from Hal's hair, which he gripped in a way he'd never been able to do to a woman's. "Oh God," he muttered, over and over. "Oh, Hal. Hal, you don't have to—don't have to— _ah!"_

Hal pulled off, breathing hotly over Barry's red-flushed member. "Don't stop me unless you don't like it," he growled, before bending his head to take him into his mouth again.

That was it for Barry. Hal was sucking hard, now, almost too hard, but with his emotions running high it was just the right amount of suction to kick him into overdrive. He was going to cum, and he hadn't cum this quickly since he was in high school. This would be embarrassing if it wasn't so painfully, exquisitely hot. "Hal, I'm gonna—you gotta . . . !"

Hal suckled him harder, taking more of him into his mouth, and then it was too late. Barry's orgasm shot through him with all the grace and inevitability of a runaway train, and he came in his best friend's mouth. Hell, with the amount his cock Hal had managed to fit in his mouth at the time, he came down his best friend's _throat._

"Oh god, I love you," Barry murmured, because his brain had shut down and his heart now had a direct line to his mouth."Fuck, Hal. That was so good. _You're_ so good. Fuck. Let me . . . let me do you."

How Barry was going to about this with zero experience and a body that felt completely boneless was a minor consideration. He was going to blow Hal's mind as hard as he had his, just as soon as Hal stopped swallowing his cum, and thrusting shallowly against the inside of his thigh.

Rather than take him up on his offer, however, Hal leaned back down and suckled on the tip of Barry's penis. It was a lingering, yet entirely superfluous gesture, as Barry had nothing left to give. Even though the sparks of pleasure, Barry realized he had missed something. Hal's eyes were closed, and there was a crease between his eyebrows, but he was undoubtedly aroused.

 _This isn't spur of the moment,_ he realized. _Not entirely. He's wanted this._ The part he wasn't sure about was whether it was him, specifically that Hal wanted, or men in general. There would be time to find out later. For now, he had to give back.

Barry pulled at Hal, hoisting him up so that they could kiss. The bitter taste of his spend in Hal's mouth was no different than it had been in Iris, or in previous sexual partners. But it was still Hal, and that was what made him shudder, and grip him all the harder.

"Lube," Hal murmured into his ear, before thrusting his hips right up against the curve of Barry's ass.

Barry's body flushed hot before chilling cool. His stomach clenched with desire, but also fear. Hal was going straight for the finish line, and Barry had no idea if he knew what he was doing. Barry certainly didn't. Anal wasn't something he had pushed for with female partners, largely as it hurt at the best of times, and if he lost control . . . if didn't bear thinking about.

"Are you sure?" He asked, his voice pitched soft and a little strangled.

"Gonna hurt otherwise," Hal murmured. Balancing himself on one forearm, he brought his free hand down the junction of Barry's body, smoothing past his cock, reaching down to grip his ass. Hal groaned, and it was like the sound was ripped out of him.

He was serious, and in that case, Barry needed to move. "One sec," he whispered, leaning up to plant a kiss against Hal's cheek. Then he was moving too quickly for Hal to make out, throwing open cabinets and desk drawers, hoping that Iris's uncle still had a fairly active sex life. Otherwise he'd have to turn to olive oil, of which there was only the dregs of a small bottle left in the kitchen. Five and a half seconds later, he was back, triumphantly wielding the lubricant and a 3-count box of condoms.

Hal grabbed him the moment he slowed enough to do so, his grip hard enough to leave bruises. "Don't do that again," he commanded as he guided Barry down onto the bed, onto his hands and knees. Neither his voice nor his touch were gentle, but Barry thought he knew why.

"I wasn't leaving," he promised. "I'm not gonna leave you, Hal."

Hal's response was a hissing exhale through clenched teeth, and the pop of the lubricant's cap.

 _This is not a good idea,_ Barry told himself as he hunkered down on the bed, listening to the stretch of latex as Hal smoothed the condom over his cock. Safe sex was a step up, but this was going to hurt him physically and emotionally. It likely would, in the long run, do irreparable damage to his and Hal's friendship. He was under no illusions about Hal's motives. He had just lost the love of his life, and was attempting to drown out that pain in the immediacy of physical pleasure. Barry was just the nearest person to hand, as well as the only person proclaiming their unexpected love for him. Hal was reacting, and when it was all over, he would regret this.

Even knowing that, Barry couldn't bring himself to stop this. He found himself curiously weak against Hal's determination. Realizing his feelings for his best friend were romantic as well as sexual didn't help. If this was what Hal needed, he would give it. Selflessly, and without hope for more in the future.

Every physical touch was so vibrant and powerful that Barry couldn't protest against them. The feel of Hal's slicked up fingers tracing up his perineum, circling around the tight ring of muscles just above was delicious and strange. It was hard to bare himself in front of Hal, and to have his attention so firmly focused on him _there,_ but that was also part of the reason it felt so damned good. When he got going, Hal's focus was 1000%. To know from his appreciative grunts and the heavy trace of his fingers that he enjoyed all this . . . it was heady, to say the least.

When Hal's slicked finger wormed its way inside of him, it was a touch more than heady. Barry didn't have much experience with appendages there, save for one clinically enlightening prostate exam a couple of years ago. Good as it had felt when the doctor had prodded his prostate—all the while droning on, in a faint East Coast accent, _Everything feels normal, Mr. Allen—_ it had been awkward enough that Barry had not explored that erogenous zone on his own. Now, with Hal's bare finger curling up inside of him, he wondered if Hal knew about the prostate. Of course he did, what was he saying? What he really meant was: would Hal _find_ the prostate? And if he did, would it feel good enough to offset the oddity of Hal's fingers inside his ass?

This question was not answered until Hal had two fingers inside of him, filling him up and making him squirmy. Barry was torn between breathing deeply to ease the stretch, and praying to God that the chute was clean, so to speak. It wasn't like he'd planned for this, nor knew how to give himself an enema anyways, so—

A bright spark of pleasure ripped through him, making his cock twitch. Oh, there it was. There was the prostate, Hal _had_ found it, good for him. He found it again, and Barry's back arched.

"Oh God," he moaned, more to signal Hal that he should keep doing that. "Hal, that's—that's . . ."

"You like that?" Hal asked, his voice dusky. "I'll give you more, baby."

Hal's addition of a third finger—along with the sexually charged term of endearment—made Barry put his flushed face down to the bed. He didn't know when he'd ever felt so full of conflicting emotions, before. There was pressure and some pain from Hal's fingers, but also overwhelming pleasure whenever Hal's fingers glanced against the prostate. More than that was the power of Hal's regard, and of his own need.

It was too much. He needed this to be resolved, and he needed it resolved, _now._

 _"_ Hal, do it," he ground out, fisting the bedspread in anticipation for pain. "I need it now. Hal, please."

There was no hesitation. Hal withdrew his hands, wiping his fingers on the bedspread. There was a moment where he swiped more lube over his cock, and then there was the press of something larger and firmer than Hal's fingers against him. Barry made a conscious effort to relax, remembering what his own stuttered advice had been to his girlfriend during his freshman year of college had been.

Even so, his breath punched out of him when Hal pushed inside. The pain was immediate in unexpected ways. He'd broken limbs, been run through, crushed to within an inch of his life by external pressures, but never had he experienced pain _there,_ like _that._ When Hal pushed deeper it became more acute, but it was offset by Hal's moan, which sent electric pinpricks of arousal dancing on his skin.

Barry clenched his teeth and focused on breathing through his nose. The odd dichotomy of pain and pleasure, particularly as it was Hal's pleasure he was reacting to, was not entirely reassuring. _It would get better,_ he assured himself. _I'll get used to this, and then—_

Then Hal pushed in at an angle, and his cockhead caught Barry's prostate. Barry moaned embarrassingly loudly, and pushed up on his forearms. "Oh God, Hal," he muttered. "Do that—do that again."

Hal did so, with increasing enthusiasm. Pain and pleasure were now in equal measure, and there was no room for coherent self-inspection. There was the solidity of Hal's body behind and within his own, and the hard pace he set which grew ever faster. There was the matter of his own sharp arousal, and the way his body strained for it, reached for it with every thrust. There were Hal's hands on his hips, and the choked off syllables of Barry's name. There was the too-full feeling in Barry's heart, and the bone-deep assurance that Hal would not last much longer. Barry could not come again, not so this quickly, but not for lack of trying.

And then there was Hal, pushing in deeper, his hips thrusting unmercifully hard. He hunched over Barry, pressing his chest to as much of his back as he could. His hips jerked out of rhythm, and the sound that tore out of his throat when he came made Barry's heart throb in his chest. There was a moment of stillness, where the only movement was of Barry's racing heart, and Hal's breath fanning across Barry's spine. Then, Hal pulled out of him, quickly enough that it stung.

Barry gingerly let himself down on the bed, wincing at the spasm of pain. There was the sound of latex stretching as Hal peeled off the used condom. Barry prepared himself for all manner of awkwardness, but not for Hal's reaction. When he glanced over his shoulder, Hal was standing in the middle of the room, eyes wide and face pale, as if he'd seen a ghost.

Barry's heart fell to his stomach. After all that, and Hal was horrified? Shit shit _shit._ Hal _was_ straight, and this was going to fuck him up. Barry had to tread carefully, even as he had no blessed idea what he was doing.

"Hal," he said, carefully. "Will you come here, for a minute?"

Hal shook his head, looking a little like he might vomit. "I didn't even ask you. I didn't even—oh God. I—oh _shit,_ I—"

Ignoring the pain over the growing panic in Hal's expression, Barry streaked over to him, taking him gently but firmly by the shoulders. "Hal, it's ok. Just—"

"But I hurt you," he stressed, and there was a distinctly wild cast in his eyes. "I—"

"Hal—"

"I _raped_ you!"

"No, you did not!" Barry yelled. "I wanted that! I want you!"

The deluge broke. With a pained moan, Hal began to cry again. He tried to pull out of Barry's hold, but he held on doggedly. Barry had to push him up against the wall to make him stop fighting him.

"Carol's dead," Hal gritted, through clenched teeth. He was crying in earnest, his throat thick and his voice almost unrecognizable. "I couldn't save her."

Barry stepped into his arms, holding him tightly. "It's not your fault. Listen to me: you did everything you could."

Tears rolled off Hal's cheeks. He was clutching Barry too hard to wipe them away. "But I didn't go after her. I should have gone after her!"

"And then you would have died as well," Barry said. "It took losing her to summon the strength to hurt one Ikon. What would have happened if you were up against two? Three? All of them?"

Hal's response was a pained moan, and then to drop his head onto Barry's shoulder.

"We have to tell Oracle," Barry reminded him gently. "About Shayera, and that we're all right. Do you want me to call her here, or in the next room?"

Hal clutched him, and that was all the answer Barry needed. He steered Hal over to the bed, where he spent a minute trying to convince him to get under the covers before giving up and wrapping the bedspread around him like a taco. He fished out his cellphone and made sure to hit the audio call button, rather than the audio-visual before bringing it to his ear. He reached for Hal's hand and gripped it tightly, even as Hal turned his face to the pillow to muffle his cries.

Oracle answered on the third ring. "Flash? Where the hell are you? Is Lantern with you? I can't get ahold of him!"

"He's here," Barry said quietly. "We're both ok, physically. We have bad news."

"Is it about Carol?" Oracle asked, hesitantly.

"Shayera's an Ikon," he told her bluntly. "She called me out. It was a trap. Hal came with me, because that much was obvious at the outset. She did mention that the real Shayera is dead. She was trying to convince us that the real John Stewart is alive, and held captive."

"Shit," Oracle breathed. " _Shit._ Although that would explain his DNA sample, and why they didn't send Shayera's. I'll alert everyone immediately. How did you guys escape?"

Barry sighed, looking down at Hal. Although Hal still refused to look at him, he gripped his hand harder, showing he was listening. "Hal knows what happened to Carol. The Ikon showed him. She had frozen us in place, but Hal's . . . emotions, along with his new ring, were enough for him to break free. He managed to hurt the Ikon. Not badly enough to really make a dent in her, but enough that she skedaddled."

"Could he do it again?" Oracle asked, intently.

"I don't know," Barry said honestly. "He was a little out of control, afterwards. We're still recovering, Oracle. It's not just emotionally."

"I understand. But you do know I'll have to DNA test you guys again and in person. Just to be sure."

"Of course. Just let us know the details. We might need an hour or two."

"Got it. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you anything else until you're tested."

"Text us the details," Barry said, eager to be done with this conversation. It'd be easy enough to prove Hal and he were human, his powers and Hal's control over his ring were enough. "I gotta get back to Hal."

Barry hung up and laid the phone down on the end table. Hal let go of his hand and turned away from him, hunching in on himself. From the shaking of his shoulders, Barry knew he was still crying.

"I'm going to hold you now," Barry told him, matter of factly. That they were stark naked mattered not at all to him. "And that's not gonna change until you fight me off. I meant it, Hal. Everything I said, I meant. I'm not letting you go." He would be no more explicit with his feelings for him than that. If Hal didn't understand that Barry loved him stupid, he would simply show him with his refusal to give up on him.

Hal didn't respond, but didn't push him away, either. So Barry slid down behind him, wrapping his arms around him, measuring time in the space between Hal's hitching breaths, and gauging his doom. He had fallen in love with his best friend while he was in the throes of the greatest heartbreak of his life. For all Barry's determination, he knew this would never end well.

There was no pleasant path out of this moment. There would be no happy ending for him.

Barry held on anyway.

...

...

...

...

...

 **If you're not already 100% on Team Flash, then get there, friend.**

 **I have a feeling I'm going to get a lot of negative feedback on this chapter. I suppose I am prepared.**


	10. Ch 9 - Beowulf

I apologize for the ridiculously late update. I could lie and say rl happened, but it didn't. But there was Christmas? That was a thing? Yes. Let's go with that.

 **My friend was trying to tell me about what a little shit Billy Batson is in the New 52 comics, the other day. I wouldn't know, as the last time I read a Shazam comic I was probably 12. I do remember him being definitively self-sacrificing, and obsessed with doing the right thing. Also all those holey moley's. That is all.**

 **Also, I apologize to Ohio/Ohioans for one of Zatanna's one liners. As a Midwesterner myself, I couldn't resist.**

 **Warnings: Explicit homosexuality, flagrant self-loathing, and just for a change of pace, homophobism because oh hey there realism.**

* * *

 **Chapter 9: Beowulf**

* * *

 **June 30th, 20xx**

 **Batcave, Gotham, 2:18 PM**

 **Day 10**

 **...**

 **...**

Kon-El Kent had been in trouble before. To be honest, most of his life had been spent in various degrees of trouble, danger, and jeopardy. Never before had he withstood a tongue lashing from Oracle, though. And while he'd do this all again just to see Tim alive and maybe even safe, he really, really hoped he wouldn't have to.

"Do you understand the full ramifications of your actions?" Oracle said, and even from beyond the computer monitor she was frightening. Her eyes were flashing, and Kon suspected that were he in the Clocktower, physical harm would be imminent.

"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly, hoping it would work against her.

Oracle kept going, wound up and fit to tan his hide. "You were our trump card, and now you're wasted! The Ikons will know about you presently, if they don't already!"

Kon regretted that he found her kinda hot, even now. Maybe it was a danger kink? Or superheroes were just hot? He didn't know. It was seriously bad timing, however. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"I'm not married, Superboy! Stop calling me ma'am!"

"Yes, ma—err. Oracle. Sorry, Oracle."

She sighed mightily. "It's like talking to a brick wall. Do you have _anything_ to say for yourself?"

Kon had plenty to say, but he figured saying it outright to the woman who was single-handedly running the war effort was a poor life decision. "I'm wasted up there," he said instead. "And I'm awful at computers."

"With Bruce . . . dead, and Clark gone, no one else can access the Watchtower," she reminded him. "Well, except for Hal, but I have it on good authority that he couldn't even set up his Netflix account without help. The only way he's going back up there is to override the lockdown, and I'd have to walk him through even _that."_

While Kon always appreciated someone else getting into trouble, this was not the time. "You need me down here. Especially now, when our numbers are so low!"

"And here you are. Are you as effective as you hoped?"

Kon's mouth tightened. There was no good answer to that. His powers, as far as he could gauge, were about half as effective as they used to be. Although he couldn't explain exactly why _,_ it made a twisted sort of sense to him: between Luthor and Clark, he had one Human dad and one Kryptonian one. That was kind of like being half-human, half-alien, even though the logistics of being a clone were nowhere near that simplistic. Why shouldn't his abilities reflect that?

"I will be," he promised. "I can use my powers. I just need to fight the effects of the pulse."

"Don't be naive," Oracle stressed. "Shazam tried exactly that, and we all know what happened to him."

"He fought free," Kon reminded her. "He got his powers back eventually. I will too. Just without killing countless innocents to do so."

"I am talking to a teenaged man-child," Oracle said, with a frustrated groan. "And—"

What sounded like a dozen alarms went off all at once on her end of the monitor. With his deadened hearing Kon couldn't quite identify all of them, although before he could have without problem.

"Shit," Oracle muttered. To him she said, "We'll finish this later. Stay at the Cave. I'll figure out something." She signed off abruptly, ostensibly to deal with whatever 12+ crises had just popped up.

Kon felt guilty, but not guilty enough to go back to the Watchtower. "Yeah, well, don't underestimate Superboy," he muttered to himself, as he signed off from the Batcave computer. "He's kind of a big deal."

He took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of his poor mood. He'd known that Oracle was not going to be happy when he beamed down from the Watchtower, but Tim had been hovering between life and death. There was no way he'd let his best friend die alone. Kon felt that no one should be surprised that he broke cover for him. Not with the way things had been going, lately.

And now he wanted to see Tim. Kon flit over to the medical wing on quiet feet. He could hear the soft murmur of voices from Tim's medical room, although the closed door was a minor impediment. _We really need to scrap this magical pulse already,_ Kon thought. It had been hard enough to come into control of his powers as a teenager. Having them suddenly at half-strength was disconcerting.

When he was just outside the door, he could make out the voices within. It was a relief to hear Tim speak, let alone with his brand of quiet amusement.

"So I hear you called me Tim, not Drake, back when you were rescuing me."

"What nonsense," the Formerly Tiny Terror, AKA Damian Wayne spat. "I did no such thing."

"Nuh uh. Kon heard everything." Tim's voice was a little slurred from the drugs, but of course he had demanded to take less than would send him under. If it would have been Kon, he'd have taken the morphine drip, but this was Tim, and the third son of the Bat, and therefore way more hardcore than Kon would ever be.

"He's lying," Damian insisted. "I wouldn't call you by your first name. Not even if I was . . . momentarily perturbed."

Kon frowned. He was _not_ lying. The surprise of Damian calling Tim by his given name— _twice—_ had struck him even then, when he was terrified and thought they were all going to die. In the back of his mind, he'd thought it was fitting. Damian had such trouble allowing he had emotions at all, let alone respect for the Robin he had sought to overthrow. That he would call him that, subconsciously, when their end was potentially near was probably all he could allow himself.

"I don't mind, Dami," Tim said. He sounded exhausted. "I mean, you're a little shit, but you're my little shit, and besides. Brothers should use first names, right?"

That was slightly less coherent than Tim meant it to be, Kon would guess. The point got across, however, and Damian would not doubt take this opportunity to denigrate Tim for his moment of 'weakness' and—

"I'll take it into consideration," Damian muttered, almost too quiet for Kon to hear. "I must go."

The door flew open before Kon could move away. Damian stormed out and sneered at Kon. "Your boyfriend's awake," he told him snidely.

Rather than give the little shit a piece of his mind, Kon turned to Tim with a faux delighted expression. "Muffin! You told your family about us?"

Tim gave him a look that generally meant his doom was nigh. Kon ignored both that and Damian's disgusted noises. He walked in, sat down next to Tim's bed, and took his uninjured hand in his own.

Tim looked down to where they were holding hands. "You know we're not actually dating, right?"

"You scared me," Kon said, very seriously. "You owe me this." And then, with a ghost of his usual humor, "Hold my hand until I feel better, damnit."

"At least you didn't grab the other one," Tim tried to joke, lifting his heavily bound, largely destroyed hand slightly.

Kon's expression darkened. There was very little of Tim that one could currently touch without causing injury. Besides the right hand that was out of commission, his left leg was broken, and he was missing three toes on that same foot. More immediately serious was the damage to his internal organs. Even after she'd managed to stabilize him, Dr. Leslie had been worried about infection settling in his thoracic cavity, and was watching him closely, keeping him on a cocktail of antibiotics, fluids, and pain medication.

He had been tortured to within an inch of his life less than 48 hours ago, and faced the threat of long term impairment for the rest of his life. Even his face would never be the same. They had used a large, blunt needle to thread through his lips, and while Dr. Leslie had managed to save them, there would always be the ghastly reminder that his mouth had been sewn shut.

His days of physically fighting crime were over. Now that their identities were known to the entire world, he'd have to start over, totally from scratch . . . with some of the most identifiable wounds any of them had ever suffered.

"You are so strong," Kon said aloud. "This is probably why you're my hero."

"What are you talking about?" Tim asked, scowling and a little embarrassed.

"You're my hero," Kon said seriously. "I mean it. You know that, right?"

Tim's eyes tracked to the side. "This is a little weird when you're holding my hand, Kon."

Kon suddenly felt a little like crying. Not that he hadn't already, when Tim had been hovering close to death at 5 AM yesterday morning, but breaking down would only make it harder for Tim, now. He was trying his hardest to be strong when his entire life was upended. Kon could feel his desperation in the strength of his grip.

"Shut it," he said instead of waxing on about Tim's fortitude. "We are both secure enough in our masculinities to have this conversation."

Something occurred to Tim, and he sucked in a breath. "Oh. Speaking of. Will you keep an eye on Jason, for me?"

Kon winced. "I was hoping to run very quickly in the opposite direction whenever I saw him coming, actually."  
Tim sighed. "Kon, he needs someone. I know what he and Dick were trying to hide. Dick told me while—"

"Yeah," Kon interrupted him. "I know too. I saw. I _watched."_

 _"_ You what?"

" _You_ were the one who wanted to know what they were doing," Kon said defensively. "And it's not like I knew what would happen until it did!"

Tim's eyebrows lifted. "Keep the details to yourself, please. But he needs somebody to keep him from . . . doing something stupid. I think Alfred doesn't want to believe it—he thinks of us all like brothers, and it's too much for his head to wrap around. And Damian hates him, so—"

"Damian hates everyone. What makes this any different?"

Tim winced. "It is different. Just—Damian, Jason, and sex should not be mixed in any way, shape, or form."

Horror overtook Kon, sheer as a blade to the ribs and just as staggering. "Wh—what . . . What are you implying?"

Tim let his head fall back against the pillow. "Not that! Shit, these drugs are awful. Look, do you swear not to say anything?"

Kon nodded wordlessly. All his higher brain function was devoted towards not thinking of the angry Robins in a bedroom together.

Tim's voice dropped. "Talia al Ghul—Damian's mother—essentially raped Jason, back when he was no older than Damian is now. It's a touchy subject for both of them, but particularly for Damian."

Kon breathed out slowly. "I shouldn't say I'm relieved, but it's better than what I was fearing. Still, that's awful. How did that happen?"

Tim grimaced. "Talia had just plucked Jason from a mindless existence on the streets after a resurrection no one can explain; dunked him in a Lazarus Pit, and while he was emotionally and psychologically compromised, not to mention incapable of telling her no, she slept with him. Multiple times, all the while claiming it would 'soothe his rage.' He was 15, and had just been dead for an entire year. What else are you supposed to call it?"

Kon breathed out frostily and the temperature of the room dropped. "And Jason's not mad at _Damian_ for that?"

"Of course not, have you met him? He blames himself! But Damian, rather than think of his mother as a rapist, as well as a total psycho bitch, has to blame him. Because what else can he do?"

"Write her off?" Kon said hopefully. "Try killing _her_ for a change _,_ rather than people that I like?"

Tim glared at him. "He should love his mother, even if she doesn't deserve it. If he can do that, he can do anything."

 _Shit,_ Kon thought. _This was heavy. Only in Gotham, and among the Batfamily._

"It's a wonder you turned out as perky as you did," Kon said seriously. "Promise me this won't turn you down the Angry Robin path. Don't go Dark Side, Timmy. I need you, man."

Tim tries to smile, but winced instead. "I should try to sleep before the drugs wear off," he said. "But promise me, Kon."

"Promise what?"

"Look after Jason. And Damian. And yourself."

Kon's throat grew tight. Nope, he couldn't cry yet. Not until he was out of the room. "You get better, and I promise."

Tim closed his eyes. "Can I have my hand back now?"

"No," Kon said, knowing that the moment he pulled away Tim was going to spiral down deep within himself, and angst himself into staying up all night. No Super handled weakness or debilitating injury gracefully, but for the Bat family, who had no alien biology or augmented abilities to help them cope, it was particularly damning. Tim had been fairly upbeat so far, and Kon was going to assume that was because of the drugs, and his presence.

"Kon—"

"Go to sleep," he said quietly, shifting his palm around Tim's thin fingers. "I'm gonna stare at you for a bit, but you can have your hand back in the morning."

"You're so weird," Tim slurred, already slipping sideways into slumber.

"Also your bestie," Kon murmured as Tim's eyelids closed. "No take backs."

...

...

...

 **June 30th, 20xx**

 **Clocktower, Gotham, 3:17 PM**

 **Day 10**

The call came through on Bruce's private line, which Barbara had been monitoring ever since he had died. Over the last few days, the government had moved to shut down all their phones, but that had worked about as well as their attempt to close down their bank and social media accounts. Cyborg had worked with her on a backup project years ago, and while on the surface it looked as if all their online assets were gone, they had all been held in escrow, and siphoned away into separate accounts until the threat had passed.

While Bruce's personal social media accounts had been ignored since he'd been unmasked, he had answered one or two private calls that had made it through the government 'blockade.' Thus Barbara continued monitoring, particularly as the world had no idea Batman had fallen, and his identity was a household name. After tinkering with the software, she realized Bruce had preempted everything—every call was transferred through a dummy line, where callers were put on hold and asked to state their name and business with Bruce Wayne. The computer program stored not only the information given, but also cross-referenced their voices with the extensive database of supervillains, superheroes, journalists, politicians, world leaders, and people of interest in the supercomputer in the cave.

If the call was deemed acceptable—not a super-villain, annoying socialite acquaintance, or the IRS, for example—it was forwarded to Bruce's actual line. So when the call came through, Barbara was nonplussed. That changed when she saw the name on the caller I.D.

Barbara answered the call on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

"Yes, hi. This is Lois Lane, and I'm trying to reach Bruce. Is he there?"

Barbara leaned back in her wheelchair and fiddled with her headset. It certainly _sounded_ like Lois Lane . . . but with the Ikon threat, she couldn't be sure. "He is not. Can I take a message?"

"Honestly? I'm hoping you'll take a lot more than that," Lois said. "I want to know what I can do to help. I don't believe this bullshit about Ikons being supers, and I know better than to believe Luthor when someone hands him power on a silver platter. President of the United States? In an afternoon? That _can't_ be legal! Why are we all pretending that it is?"

"We thought you were dead," Barbara said carefully, ignoring Lois's righteous indignation. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Hitchhiking," Lois said. "And then hiding out in Gotham. I was in a shady little motel just outside of Metropolis when it was destroyed, and I'd planned on taking the train back. I didn't have a whole lot on me, so between the skeevy truck drivers and the hordes of homeless now wandering the highway leading from Metropolis, it took me some time to get to Gotham and find a safe place to stay. I've had to be careful. Enough people know I'm dating Clark, and there's a lot of anti-alien sentiment going around, right now."

"You haven't asked me about Clark," Barbara noticed, still unsure whether this was Lois she was speaking to, or an Ikon who had somehow gotten this number.

"I don't need to," Lois said confidently. "I believe in him, even if he has the shittiest timing known to man. Besides, he has his own way of reaching me, and I'm sure he'll let me know when he gets back. I just hope he gives me enough warning so that I can give the exclusive on him pummeling Luthor into the freaking ground."

Barbara was torn. On the one hand, this was Lois Lane to a tee. Brash, confident, fixated on getting the story, and with a healthy respect for her significant other and his alternate career. On the other, this was exactly the sort of opening the Ikons needed. Now that it was determined that Shayera and John were actually Ikon shapeshifters, they had, hopefully, lost their direct line of intel into the superhero camp. Introducing 'Lois Lane' would be the easiest way of regaining that.

Barbara would have to tread carefully. "What is your purpose in calling, again?"

Lois sighed, sounding a bit aggrieved that Barbara wasn't keeping up. "Look, I believe in Clark. Without question. Until he gets back, I need to make sure everyone else does, as well."

"And how would you do that?" Barbara asked, already thinking through a few possibilities herself. _If_ she was actually talking to Lois, that was.

"I'm a journalist, hun," Lois said. "Just about the only one you have on Team Super. What _can't_ I do for you?"

"Is that how you got this number?" Barbara asked abruptly.

"No, Clark gave it to me," Lois admitted. "Said not to use it unless things went south, and in a bad way. Why?"

This was a chance, Barbara could feel it. She'd proceed carefully to make sure Lois was who she claimed, but if she was . . . well, she had some ideas. And now that her own voice had been analyzed by every computer program known to man after she'd hacked the entire television and radio networks—to say nothing of her pervasive internet presence—in order to warn Chicago, they needed someone else to front line their news.

Lois was either exactly what they needed, or an Ikon trap.

"We'll need to test you to make sure you're human," Barbara said. "If you are, we'll talk. But how do you feel about targeting government corruption and revealing it in a manner that could possibly be described as . . ."

"Terrorist?" Lois supplied.

"Vigilante, I was going to say."

Lois hummed. "Well, if you don't tell Clark . . .?"

Barbara tapped her lips. If she had to bet, she'd bet this was the real Lois. The timing was more than a little suspicious, however. She would have to proceed carefully, and, in the spirit of an infamous past American president, carry a big damn stick. "Promise."

"Inordinately excited. Bordering on giddy. What do you need me to do?"

...

...

...

 **June 30th, 20xx**

 **Local news channel, South Dakota, 4:30 PM**

 **Day 10**

The news anchor stood in front of a smoking wreck as EMTs, firemen, and police teemed around him, shouting muffled commands.

He clutched his microphone and began, "This is Rodrigo Estevez reporting live from the scene of the explosion that took place barely half an hour ago. As you can see behind me, the Rutherford Medical Laboratory in central South Dakota is nearly completely destroyed, following an electrical fire that blazed out of control. As far as we can tell, it was this that led to the explosion that set three acres of trees ablaze, and resulted in a sonic boom that was heard as far off as 30 miles. "

Mr. Estevez affected a look of concern. "There have been no fatalities reported, although there are chilling estimates that at least three individuals had been held here against their will prior to the explosion. No DNA evidence has survived, but information gathered from an anonymous informant early this morning was that one of the captives was Roy Harper, otherwise known as Arsenal."

Mr. Estevez licked his lips before continuing. Back in the studio, the editor on duty groaned. Licking his lips was Rodrigo's nervous tell, and it usually meant he was going to deviate from the script. The editor swore internally, and, as he did at least thrice a week, decided he wasn't paid enough for this shit.

"Although the cause of the explosion seems straightforward, there was one witness who claims otherwise." The camera panned slightly to the left, so that Rodrigo shared the screen with a scruffy, bearded, unwashed man. "Thomas Hathaway has been living in the woods adjacent to the Rutherford Medical Lab for the last several months, and was present when the explosion took place. Thomas, could you share with the audience what you've told me?"

Mr. Hathaway began nodding enthusiastically even before Rodrigo finished. His shaky voice and wildly tracking eyes denoted either addiction or a deep-seated neurosis. "Yeah. _Yeah._ It was like outta the Bible. The Bible, I'm telling you, like I was back in Sunday School. A red angel come down from heaven, and she—she raised up her hand and smote the building with starlight. She dove down and raised him up from the wreckage, and then carried him off in her arms."

"Him?" Rodrigo asked, ignoring the commands in his earpiece to _get this nutjob off the air, already._ "Did you see the man she carried?"

Mr. Hathaway stilled, and raised his eyes to the heavens. "I did, indeed. It was our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ," he whispered, just before Rodrigo's segment was interrupted from the studio.

...

...

...

 **June 30th, 20xx**

 **Arrow Cave, Star City, 5:02 PM**

 **Day 10**

"Mr. Oliver?"

Ollie glanced up at Billy, wondering when that nickname would lose its charm. Hadn't yet, but it had only been a few days. "Yes?"

Billy gestured back towards Ollie's own supercomputer monitor, sitting at the center of the Arrow Cave. To those who would notice that the general layout of the Arrow Cave and the Bat Cave were nearly identical, Ollie would thank them to mind their business. If someone he liked had ever asked, he would have revealed that both reflected the layout of the murky, subterranean basement of the Charles Agatha Drummonds School for Boys, and that clearly, he and Bruce must have spent an inordinate amount of time down there during their tenures.

(Not together, obviously, as they hadn't been friends, then. 12 year old Bruce Wayne was a little shit. So was 38 year old Batman, but this mattered more to Oliver when he was 14.)

"Mr Oliver?"

"Yes, yes, I'm listening this time," he promised. "Got a little distracted there, for a minute."

"The computer's going off," Billy said, eyeing him carefully. "I think it's time for the League Meeting."

Ah, no wonder the kid was nervous. Also in Shazam form. It was a testament to the last 24 hours that Ollie was able to think of him as a kid even when he looked like the beefiest 30-something Ollie knew—a not unimpressive feat considering he, Hal, Barry and Bruce were in their 30's as well.

A kid Billy was, however, and between his unfailing kindness, his sad puppy eyes, and his uncomplicated gratitude that Ollie was taking care of him, he had also pretty much won Ollie over. In moments of bleak self-awareness, Ollie admitted that he needed someone to care for just as much as Billy needed to be cared for. He needed it to anchor himself now that Dinah was gone. But he wasn't so selfish as to use the kid without actually liking him. Shazam was not what he'd thought, for years and years, and having his worldview upended was good for him. It kept him from mourning Dinah, or at least, being so paralyzed by her loss that he could not move forward.

"So, there may be some tension," Ollie said, winding an arm up and around Shazam's burly shoulder. "Don't take it personally. We're pretty much all dicks."

"There should be tension," Billy said glumly. "I'm not going to forget what I did. Nor should anyone else."

"No, no. That's not the attitude you need. Well, maybe it is. You couldn't cry on cue for everyone, could you? 'Cuz that totally works on me."

Billy turned to him, and even though he was in magical beefy wizard form, his sad teenager eyes were just as effective. _Oh hell,_ Ollie thought. _It's too late. I'm fond of him, now. I couldn't return him if I tried._

"I'm not going to cry," Billy said, tightly. "I'm going to be strong. You were right, Mr. Oliver. I need to atone, but not so badly that I'm going to do the wrong thing just so I feel a little less guilty. When all this is over I'll take my punishment. I gotta help you guys save the world, first."

On the computer, Oracle's hail had been beeping for a solid three minutes. Ollie ignored it in favor of the rush of pride that stemmed from Billy's resolve. It was the first purely positive emotion Ollie had entertained since Dinah's passing, and he was a little overcome by it. He was more than a little grateful.

"C'mere, kiddo," he said, and even though Billy was currently three inches taller than him and outweighed him by a good 80 lbs, he folded into Ollie's hug easily enough. "I'm pretty sure this is what being a momma duck feels like," Ollie snarked into Billy's shoulder. "Or maybe just motherhood, period. But you're right. Keep thinking like that, and it's all gonna work out ok."

Billy hugged him back for just a moment before letting go. "I'll try, Mr. Oliver. I'll do my best."

 _He's not Roy,_ Ollie thought as he turned back to his computer. That wasn't a bad thing. It was also no better to think about, seeing as how Roy was still missing. While he hadn't been killed on television, that was only a small mercy, especially with how the country was losing its collective shit over the televised execution yesterday morning.

Christ, and Hal better be visibly attending this New League meeting. He hadn't been picking up his phone, and when Ollie got ahold of him he was going to lay into him for worrying him this badly. Oracle had assured him they were both alive, but there had been a run in with an Ikon. _Way to settle my fears, O,_ Ollie had snarked before she'd hung up on him.

That was probably justified, but hell. Ikons were, last Ollie checked, just a teensy bit invulnerable. To hear that Barry and Hal survived their run in with one was a) heartening, b) confusing, and c) just what Ollie needed to send his blood pressure through the roof, if that was in fact how blood pressure worked. (Ollie didn't know, and right now, he didn't much care.)

What Ollie did know was that Barry better get a flipping medal for his efforts over the last couple days, because after Carol's public execution, Ollie couldn't begin to imagine how he'd kept Hal alive, sane, and out of Ikon control. Never mind the superspeed. Barry's true power was Hal-wrangling, and Ollie was calling it now.

"Mr. Oliver, I think you're getting distracted again, and Oracle is gonna kill us if we don't pick up."

Yeah, Ollie was gonna keep Billy. He kept him on the straight and narrow, and he also made damn good coffee. "Good hug, kid. Let's get to business."

They settled back and took position as the monitor flickered on, bringing the faces of those still living in the New League around them. Out of the corner of his eye, Ollie saw Billy's jaw tense. And then it was like they were having a tour of tense jaws all around, because Barry, Hal, Jason Todd, and even little Damian Wayne all had expressions so stiff they could cut things with their big manly jawlines.

Ollie was getting sidetracked, but he figured he had about 3 seconds left to do so before shit hit the fan, so—

"Oh, and we're letting Shazam on the League channel?" Damian Wayne asked, rudely. At least, in Ollie's opinion. "Because that's a sterling idea."

"Arrow," Oracle chastised. "I told you bring him back, but we have not cleared him for League meetings, or missions."

Ollie pursed his lips. "Well, I don't exactly remember voting you Queen of—"

Billy cut in before Ollie could make too large a fool of himself. "I can't apologize enough for what I was made to do," Billy said, his voice quiet but unwavering. He swallowed thickly enough that Ollie could hear the snick in his throat. "And believe me, the last thing I want to do is pretend that it didn't happen. But—but we've lost so much, and if you need me . . . I mean, my power, it's yours to command. I won't be taken over again. They'll _never_ control me again."

"You can't be sure of that, Billy. How do you know they're not reeling you in and out, playing games with you?" Barry asked, sounding exhausted. He was wearing his costume, which hid the nuances of his expression from everyone, but his body was stiff, tense, still. That wasn't a good thing, in Ollie's experience. Barry was kind of a loosey goosey kind of guy, and stiff shoulders on him generally equalled disaster.

"Because my magic is my own, again," Billy replied, leaning forward. His hood slipped back a little, revealing his earnest expression. "There's no pain, no sickness from using it. Mr. Oliver and I have been testing this since we got back. I'm free, and 100% _me."_

And that would cue all the Mr. Oliver jokes, Ollie figured. From Hal, especially. Caustic and a little cruel, judging by the recent loss of Carol Ferris, but the teasing would come nonetheless . . .

. . . except it didn't. As Oracle rested her head in her hands, Hal just looked at Ollie and asked, listlessly, "Are you vouching for him?"

"Yes?" Ollie said. When he realized it sounded like a question—and it was, but the question was _what the hell, Hal Jordan,_ rather than any question in Billy's abilities—he reiterated more firmly. "Yes. I am. Hal, are you—"

"This is not a committee," Oracle argued, although weakly. "We need to be certain that Billy is free of Ikon control."

"Then let's make certain," Jason replied. "Because it's not like there's a whole lot of us left." His voice was nigh expressionless, verging on robotic. He had lost his family too, Ollie realized with an odd jolt. Roy and Koriand'r had been his family for the last few years, and they were both gone. Who else did Jason have? Tim Drake, as complicated as their relationship was, was injured. Not to mention his mentor, Batman, was dead.

Even Nightwing was gone. Not that the two of them got along, or anything. Roy had mentioned years ago that the day Dick and Jay started being civil to each other was the day Hell would freeze over. Still, Jason had lost nearly everything in a very short amount of time. No wonder he was so listless and depressed. Same went for Hal, and Ollie, himself. Barry's mood was probably tied to Hal's, and Damian was never very happy, and Billy was apologizing for heinous crimes against humanity (albeit out of his control) . . .

Well, shit. This was maybe not the time to bring forward his plans for the Prettiest Surviving Hero Competition, when all this was over.

"And how is Shazam going to prove he's regained control?" Damian asked, acerbically.

"One task at a time," Billy stated, firmly. "I won't back away from whatever you ask me to do. As long as it's the right thing to do," he finished, with a quick glance at Ollie.

Ollie nodded before reaching out and putting a hand on Billy's shoulder. "And I'll help. You sent me to bring back a hero, not a scapegoat. Here he is."

Their proclamation was met with an astounding lack of concern. Hal's expression was shaded by misery, but he said nothing against them. The look on Barry's face was only two steps removed from Hal's, and he kept leaning closer to Hal, before hurriedly shifting away. Todd's expression, unhidden by his helmet/hood/face glove thing, was vacant, as if he were mentally somewhere far away.

That left it up to Damian to sputter and protest. "This is ridiculous. We have just jettisoned two Ikon spies, and now you leave us to be infiltrated by more?"

Oracle picked her head up from her hands, eyes alight as if something had just occurred to her. She spoke over Damian, saying, "I have an idea. Shazam, how closely have you worked with Superboy, in the past?"

Billy looked taken aback. "Uh, just when he's collaborated with the League, or when I helped out with the Teen Titans. Why?"

"And you're at full power? You're positive?" Oracle pressed.

Billy nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Oracle settled back in her wheelchair. "Good. That being the case, I'd like you and Arrow to make your way to Gotham. Arrow will have to undergo a DNA test—which will likely become standard procedure, at this point—but proving your identity will be a little easier. All you have to do is prove your magic is Earth-based, and we'll know it's you. And if it's as you say, and your power is back to normal, there is something that only you can do."

Ollie narrowed his eyes, unsure how to take this about-face turn. "And that is . . .?"

A figure stepped forward from the back of her wheelchair, stepping into the computer's light so that everyone present saw his face.

Oracle gestured behind her. "Helping Superboy break the Ikon's hold on _his_ power."

...

...

...

 **June 30th, 20xx**

 **Wayne Manor, Gotham 7:18 PM**

 **Day 10**

Damian Wayne narrowed his eyes at little Michael Wilson, who sat at Alfred's kitchen table. The toddler kicked his legs and grappled with a tub of peanut butter, all the while Alfred pottered about the kitchen, in the act of putting together the beginning of their dinner. Damian was not pleased at the child's presence. This was not the provocation he needed right now, particularly after a League Meeting where absolutely nothing productive was accomplished.

Disregarding Oracle's vague plan to return Kent to optimal efficiency, the point of the meeting could have been to highlight the slow and weary wear of their emotional states. Green Lantern had sat through the meeting with a stony emptiness in his air that was palpable even when he was in costume, and wearing a domino. The Flash had not looked much better. Both men appeared to be tearing at the seams, to use an American phrase which Damian thought fitting. Whatever had happened during their altercation with the Ikon, or its aftermath, had not been beneficial to their continued emotional well-being.

This was to say nothing of Todd, who had apparently lost . . . well. That didn't bear thinking of.

It was too disgusting.

And now Damian was forced to stand in the kitchen and interact with the toddler. A pointless endeavor. He should be with Todd and Kent, who were checking over the Manor's defense systems for the umpteenth time while they waited for Shazam and Green Arrow to arrive. No more patrolling for them; not with Father and Grayson gone, and a world that had—save for a few loyal cities—turned against them. It was only the grace of Father's reputation and long history with Gotham and its police force that left them relatively unhampered, although it would not be long before the federal government moved in against the city's wishes.

They would all be leaving the Manor soon, and it was time to determine where, and with whom they would all hide.

It was this subject which kept Damian sitting in the kitchen, suffering through the toddler's attempt to lick peanut butter from a spoon. _Michael Wilson was a heathen and not properly socialized,_ Damian decided. Why did no one else see this?

"All gone!" Michael Wilson announced, brandishing his spoon towards Alfred.

"Put it in the sink," Damian snapped, unthinkingly. "You have legs. Use them."

Michael frowned at him. "Don' like you," he replied, and instead tottered over to Alfred, who plucked the spoon from his grasp, and gave Damian an aggrieved glance.

"Do try to get along," Alfred chastised.

Damian preferred to think it applied to them both. "Say what you need to," he said instead. "I don't have all day."

Alfred sighed. After hitching Michael up to his hip, he glanced over at Damian out of the corner of his eye. "Does it bother you, that Richard and Jason were lovers?"

Damian blinked. It always took him aback when Alfred dropped his polite, valet's veneer and went straight for the kill. The only way he knew how to combat it was with even more brutal honesty. "Yes. You?"

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "As a matter of fact, it does."

Damian stalled once again. What was Alfred playing at? The man was no homophobe, and had openly supported the LGBTQ community during the last parade they'd held in Gotham. Along a more personal vein, Grayson was clearly his favorite Robin, and Alfred had even managed to retain some affection for Todd while he was at the height of his infamy as the Red Hood, attempting to break the family apart.

"I don't understand," Damian said. "My reasons are clear cut, as I have made no secret of my distaste of unnatural lifestyles. What objection could you possibly have?"

Alfred settled down into a chair, Michael Wilson on his lap. The boy was amusing himself with another spoonful of peanut butter, dropping large gobs of it onto Alfred's shoulder.

The aged butler smiled sadly at Damian before admitting, "It has nothing to do with their being men, Master Damian. It is simply that I do not think they can make each other happy in the long term."

Damian's eyebrows rose. "What does that matter? They shouldn't have been together at all. Homosexuality is a disgusting proclivity, and they would have been better served to ignore such tendencies." He glanced away before granting, "More importantly—even if one of them had been a woman—they had no business choosing each other. A single argument could have brought Todd's rage down upon us, or pushed Grayson into making a foolish decision."

For a fleeting moment, Damian thought of his parents, both as they were as people, and as vigilantes. "They were, prior to this, on opposite sides of the vigilante spectrum. There is no middle ground for such a union."

"Disregarding your blatant hatred and fear of what is simply another form of love, there is a kernel of truth in your argument," Alfred admitted. "I fear that Nightwing and Red Hood cannot carve out a future together. Be that as it may, we have come to a different crossroads, and we need to make a decision."

Damian straightened in his chair. Distasteful conversation about his elder brother's predilections aside, here was the conversation that he had waited so patiently for. "Where shall we be moving, Alfred?"

Alfred's mouth twisted. "Mr. Kent shall be escorting Master Drake, Dr. Leslie, young Master Michael, and myself to the Watchtower, as soon as Master's Drake's condition allows. There we shall remain until the end of the war, one way or another. You shall remain on Earth with Master Jason and the rest of the New League."

Damian nodded. Logically, there was nothing else that could be done. Drake had stabilized, but would benefit further from the Watchtower's state of the art medical equipment, and Dr. Leslie's and Alfred's round the clock care. As for the rest, he and Todd were two of the few able-bodied superheroes left. Leaving had never been an option for them.

"The question that remains is whether or not you shall be fighting at Batman's side."

"What do you mean?" Damian hissed, his eyes flying up in surprise. "Father—"

Alred's reply was tired. "Jason will take up Bruce's mantle."

Damian shot to his feet. "What?" He exclaimed. "Todd will—who decided that? Who thought that the _Red Hood_ was more deserving of Father's legacy than I?"

Michael Wilson squirmed in Alfred's hold, intrigued by Damian's outburst, but Alfred regarded him steadily. "Bruce did," he said quietly, but with a tinge of iron.

 _Alfred did not lie to them,_ Damian reminded himself. Alfred did not play the games they all revelled in. He did what must be done, simply and quietly, and moved on. "What do you mean?" He hissed, rather than ranting further about the injustice of this decision.

"Bruce would not be Bruce if he did not leave a contingency plan or two. In this case, he left forty seven." Alfred managed a wry smile. "I consider it a catastrophe tree—should _this_ disaster happen, then we are pushed out onto that branch. Should _that_ disaster; another. As it is, Barbara and I have used it to determine who Bruce would have selected as his successor in this uncertain time.

"You may peruse it if you like," Alfred invited him. "But it boils down to this: in this present circumstance, as both Richard and Timothy are out of the running, Jason, as he is unquestioningly our ally, was Bruce's selection for Batman until the present danger has been resolved."

"And you don't see the madness in allowing _Jason Todd_ to wear Father's cowl?" Damian asked. "Or do you think his personal vendettas, proclivity for murder, and his tendency to detonate the Gotham Docks at least once a month are what his reign as Batman should encompass?"

"While the Ikons are a threat, yes," Alfred said, as he capped the peanut butter with one hand, and pushed it out of Michael Wilson's reach. "He seems to be doing well, so far."

"And what about _after_ the Ikons are defeated? His strategy only works if he dies when they do." Damian pointed out, scathingly.

"If he does not succumb to the Ikons—and I sincerely hope he survives this war—we shall ask for the suit back and he shall give it."

Damian blustered, "Of all the stupid, naive notions—"

"Or did you think your father was the only one with the override codes to the suit?" Alfred asked, tone lofty. "How about the override codes to all your suits? Even Barbara does not have those, Master Damian, but I do. So have no fear that Jason will make off with Bruce's legacy."

This was not a conversation, this was an ambush. Damian should have realized this the moment Alfred sat down with the toddler on his lap. "What is the point of this conversation, then?" He snapped. He hadn't felt this ineffectual since he was a child, and his body hadn't moved as quickly as his mind.

Alfred gave him a discerning look from underneath his brows. "Keeping all this in mind, will you fight with him? As Robin, to his Batman?" Alfred held up a hand, stalling Damian's immediate reply. "I require honesty, Master Damian. Not whatever answer you think you should give. Will you be his Robin? Or will you be leaving this war?"

Damian narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

Alfred smiled genially at him, as if he had not slapped the boy across the face with an ultimatum. "You heard me, Master Damian. Or perhaps you think you might be better utilized in the Watchtower?"

"Let me understand you _,"_ Damian said, gritting his teeth. "My options are to fight as Robin to an undeserving Batman, accept exile to the Watchtower, or leave the war entirely."

"Oh, no," Alfred tutted. "Your options are to step up and be a man, and prove yourself a true hero . . . or wallow in your sense of superiority like a spoiled little boy and potentially allow the Ikons to win the war. What shall it be, Master Damian?"

"How dare you?" Damian hissed through his teeth. "If Father were alive, he would not stand for this blatant favoritism!"

Alfred twisted in his seat, jostling the dozing toddler on his lap. From the top drawer of the sideboard he pulled out several sheets of printer paper, protected by thin plastic sleeves. Taking care not to jostle Michael, he slid the paper across the table to Damian.

Damian glanced down and read.

 _ **Death of Batman Contingencies**_

 _Following is a comprehensive diagram of responses to my alter ego's demise, and what I would suggest in each circumstance. To be kept and executed by Alfred, or, in case of his own demise, Oracle. If she, too, is gone, executor's privilege goes to Commissioner James Gordon._

Damian flipped through the pages, eyes flying across scenarios, leaving largely Richard as Batman, but there were others with Timothy, fewer with Jason . . .

. . . and none with him.

"Bruce was quite clear on this," Alfred murmured. "There will be no 'battle for the suit.' If you choose to work against his wishes, you shall be exiling yourself more completely than Jason ever did. Even if and when Jason dies, and I'm sure it's an outcome you're debating taking upon yourself, you will not be recognized as Batman." Alfred sighed. "I regret that I had to spring this on you in this manner, but Bruce's instructions were specific. You respond best to violence; barring that, ultimatums. So once again, here are your options: do you fight with us as Robin? Or do you leave us, once and for all?"

Damian was blindsided. Years of taking Alfred for granted—his meek demeanor, his quiet way of keeping the peace, his oblique conversational patterns—and now this? Damian had forgotten that Alfred once had been a soldier, and that he had no qualms about killing, as Father had.

"May I have time to think this over?" He asked, stalling.

Alfred's lips thinned. "Pack your things," he replied.

Fear and fury rose up in him in equal measure. How could Father have found him wanting? How could Alfred push him into a decision? Why was he being forced to leave _again?_

 _A memory settled all around him, intransient as morning mist: Mother sitting at her desk, her back to him. She had just told him he was to be exiled to Gotham, to insert himself into his natural father's life for more reasons than one. She did not look at him as he left. She did not care, and that bore down on him more strongly than all the predicted difficulties of his mission._

They were always pushing him away. Mother, Grandfather, and now Father and Alfred . . . But he was no child anymore. He was nearly a man grown, and he had some say in whether he remained in the place he had so painstakingly carved for himself. Even if he didn't like some aspects of it—most aspects of it—he would not be dislodged so carelessly, as if he were worth less than yesterday's trash!

"I will _not leave,"_ Damian enunciated, furious. "You cannot make me."

Alfred raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that your decision?"

Damian looked down at the table top, swallowing thickly before forcing out, "I will do it. I will fight as Robin. I will not . . . not disappoint Father."

Alfred's face wreathed in a smile so warm that it seemed incongruous to the conversation of before. "Oh, excellent," he said. He shifted the sleeping toddler to rest on his other leg. "In that case, what would you like for dinner?"

...

...

...

 **June 30th, 20xx**

 **Howard West's Lake house, Zion, IL 9:33 PM**

 **Day 10**

There had been several times in Hal's life where he'd thought: _This is it. I've hit rock bottom. Things can get no worse than this. I give up._

All those times he'd proven himself wrong by virtue of _not_ giving up, not giving in. He'd bit and fought and cursed his way back to normalcy, where there had always been three things waiting for him, practically guiding him out of his darkest moments. The first were his friends; those among the Corps, and those on Earth; Ollie and Barry foremost. The next were those he loved, and now he could admit that Barry figured foremost here, too, although if he'd ever had the luxury of _choosing_ one person to love and honor over all others, it would have been Carol.

The last guiding principle in his life was more abstract, and it was a sense that no matter how much of a total bastard he became, no matter what he stooped to to save the universe, he would always deserve to be a Green Lantern. To wear the ring, and use it to protect others. Never to hurt innocents, no matter how desperate the situation. Never to give in to his own darkness, or weakness, or momentary bouts of insanity. In particular, never to commit the crime that sickened him the most—sexual violence. Hal had believed wholeheartedly that he would never be a rapist. He had known, even when he was drunk or despairing, that no meant no.

He'd had all those things, those three guiding precepts, until about 5pm yesterday. Then in the grief of losing Carol, he'd lost them all in one fell swoop.

Hal shut his eyes and gave serious thought to slamming his head against the wall.

He had effectively raped his best friend. Sure, Barry might swear up and down he liked it, but Barry was straight, and self-sacrificing, besides. Even if he hadn't been, Hal had never even asked Barry what _he_ wanted, or even if it was ok. His twisted heart had manipulated his morals, leaving him a sick bastard who didn't deserve to wield a Lantern's ring, let alone experience Barry's current, unflagging presence and support.

For that was the return on his terrible, terrible investment. In the aftermath, Hal had gone to pieces. Barry had coaxed him through the worst of his grief, holding him until the tears had dried, cleaning him gently in the shower, letting him sleep in his arms. Barry had made him breakfast the next morning, ran their DNA samples to Barbara—proving he was who he claimed to be, at least in Hal's opinion—and then _came back_ to him, acting as his silent, cautious shadow through the rest of the day.

This, after what Hal had done. After Hal had _raped him._

Hal bit down hard on his back molars. The outlook was bleak. He had lost all the lights that illuminated his emotional dark places (even Ollie's light was dimmed, with Dinah's death) and _this,_ truly, was rock bottom. It could not get worse than this. There was nothing good to return _to._

. . . And yet he would not give up. He would continue to fight. This was not the time to give into an emotional crisis. There were so few members of the league left, and they needed every single one of them. If Shazam could temporarily ignore his death count, Hal could ignore this.

He was not a Green Lantern for nothing. He was a Green Lantern for everything he was, everything he had ever done, and he would not disappoint them now, even when he had so thoroughly disappointed himself. Even if it mean he had to make his own light to lead himself out of the darkness.

"Hal?" Barry said quietly. "Do you have a moment?"

Hal exhaled slowly. If only Barry would get the picture, he might be able to survive the fallout. As it was . . . "No. Go away."

Barry hesitated, his light eyes tracking over his face. Blithely ignoring him, he said, "I know we don't have any specific mission as of yet, but I think we should head out to Central City. Just to patrol and keep ourselves sharp."

"We're not supposed to draw attention to ourselves, not until Oracle has figured out a plan," Hal said blandly, as he stood at the window of Howard West's lakehouse. Outside the trees were full and green, illuminated in the darkness by the ostentatious yard lights. If Hal stared at them hard enough, sometimes he forgot Barry was there. Sometimes he almost forgot what he'd done. "And we're still waiting for the results of the DNA tests."

Barry edged forward and to the side, just enough that Hal could pick him up from his peripheral vision. He held up his cell phone and announced, "Just got the text back from Oracle. Congratulations, we're both human."

Hal did not respond to Barry's weak attempt at humor. Neither did he look at him. He was far too ashamed to do so.

After a moment of silence, Barry continued. "Ooooook. Well, how about—"

"We're supposed to stay low," Hal repeated, without expression. "Superheroes and those affiliated with them are to be reported and/or apprehended on sight. Did you not listen to the news? The bill passed. It's a law now."

Barry took a step closer, his voice dropping low. Even now, _even now,_ when Hal's emotional landscape was barren and dark, it made warmth pool in his belly. "Why don't you look at me and say that?"

Hal licked his lips, but didn't look away from the view outside the window. He had gone almost eight hours without making eye contact with Barry, and while Barry had apparently been fine with this so far, he'd reached his tipping point. Hal's stomach clenched, queasily. He didn't know what would happen if he looked at him, but he thought it couldn't be good.

"Can't even do that?" Barry said, and Hal could hear his frustration. "Then fight me, Hal."

"What?" That was enough of a surprise that he almost looked Barry in the eye. Almost. His gaze skittered down to his mouth just in time, and stalled. "What the hell are you talking about?" He tried again, hoping the anger in his voice would distract Barry from his traitorous eyes.

"I thought I was clear. I want you to fight me, Hal," Barry said, moving so that they were nearly chest to chest. Hal should move away, he _knew_ he should, but Barry was always going to be faster than he was, and now that he'd crept in close enough to touch, closer than he'd been since their disastrous interlude on Howard West's bed the other day, Hal's body stubbornly refused to move away.

"I don't wanna fight you," Hal muttered, only half aware of what he was saying. Barry was out of costume and smelled like soap and fucking sunshine, if sunshine had a smell, and Hal wanted comfort and normalcy and that sunshine so badly he was ready to give anything to get it. He had felt like a horrible, dirty bastard for the past 24 hours, and something had to give.

Barry was also a force of nature, and very little got between him and what he really, truly wanted. Hal knew everyone thought he was the asshole in charge of their friendship, but he knew the truth. When Barry wanted something, Hal generally found ways to quietly fold, or complainingly acquiesce. He had only tried to actively withhold something from Barry before maybe once or twice, and never when he was this emotionally compromised.

It hadn't worked out too well then, and he had a sinking feeling it wouldn't end well now. Particularly as Barry kept shifting closer to him, like he didn't think it was disgusting to touch him, like he _wanted_ to be close to him. And even now, Hal wanted Barry close to him. Even when he couldn't look him in the eye.

God, he was utterly pathetic.

"Fight me,"Barry enunciated, "Or let me _fight you."_

The way Barry pronounced 'fight' looked an awful lot like 'fuck,' and it was like a flip switched in Hal's brain. Fighting and fucking should probably not be so closely connected in his brain, but hell, they were fucking superheroes. And if Barry was pushing for this . . . why was Barry pushing for this? Hal didn't know. He couldn't think. His brain was spinning and he just didn't know.

He licked his lips. "Is that what you want?" He murmured, voice low, his mild southern accent clear.

Barry put his hands on him slowly, one at his bicep, the other at his jaw. The touch was not gentle, yet Hal didn't expect it to be. Didn't really want it to be.

"I know what I want, Harold Jordan," Barry said, because even though Hal had raped him he was still an asshole who brought full names into the equation. "And I've told you three times. Don't make me say it again."

His voice was a weird mixture of authoritative and vulnerable, of the Flash and Barry. Hope flooded through him like a lightning storm, making him a little giddy, and definitely in a prime position to make bad decisions and promote further disasters in his life.

He sucked in a deep breath, and finally let his gaze flicker up to Barry's. "If you want it, come and get it," he challenged him, and honestly had no idea whether to expect a fist to the gut or Barry's lips against his until the speedster surged forward and kissed him.

Hal groaned. Even though he knew it was wrong and that this could only come back and kick his ass later, he opened under Barry's touch, catching Barry's lower lip with his teeth and tugging, gently, before Barry pulled back like he'd been shot.

There was enough time for his heart to shoot down his stomach before Barry asked, "Do you want this, Hal?"

Hal hesitated, torn. Wanting was not the problem. Wanting had never _been_ the problem. The problem was that _Barry_ shouldn't want it, and even if he did, there were still a million other problems to address. Like Carol, and that there was no way Green Lantern and the Flash could be gay, let alone together. And how he'd taken Barry's anal virginity _without even asking_ , and Carol, or how Barry deserved so much more than him. And of course, Carol, and that Hal was an absolute asshole, and would hurt Barry so much worse than Carol in the end because he loved Barry so much more, and that was how it worked, wasn't it?

Barry must not have understood Hal's dilemma, because his face fell. "Look, it's up to you," he started, voice quiet. "But I want you to know that if it were up to _me,_ I'd pick being with you over this stagnation any day. Even if you were just . . . using me, to get over Carol's death. I meant what I said, Hal," he finished, tiredly. "All of it. And I'm not going anywhere."

 _I can't use you; not when I love you this much._ The words were too heavy to utter, so Hal did the only thing he could. He leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss he'd ever given anyone onto Barry's lips.

 _That's all the romance I can give you,_ he thought. _Just let it be enough._

It was. Barry relaxed into the kiss, stepping forward so that they could slot their bodies together, tilting his mouth so he could deepen it. They kissed for longer than Hal could remember doing since he'd been a virgin in high school and kissing was the only thing he could manage doing without losing control of the exciting appendage in his pants. Hal would have been perfectly fine with kissing him forever, or at least until Oracle sent them on a mission, but Barry had other plans.

Pulling back after one last lingering kiss, he looked up the inch or so into Hal's eyes and asked, "Can we do it again?"

Hal blinked three times before he understood. "Sex?"

Barry, who was a grown-ass man and the goddamned Flash, flushed. "There really is no romance to you, is there," he stated.

"No," Hal shook his head, a little mesmerized not only by the arousal pooling in his gut, but also at the thought that Barry would willingly go through that with him, again. "I thought it wasn't . . . that you didn't . . . I thought I hurt you," he finished. "I thought you didn't like it."

Barry flashed him a little smile that managed to be equal parts shy and sassy. "I mean, there's always room for improvement, but I wouldn't ask for it if I didn't want it," he snarked, taking Hal by the hand, leading him in the general direction of Howard's bedroom. Dumbly, Hal followed after him.

"So let's try, try again, Hal." Barry shot him a glance over his shoulder, one with a spark in his eye that made Hal's stomach flare with heat. "Besides, I wanna see if you can make me come without touching my cock."

Hal was still having trouble finding the words for basic concepts. "But I—you—it . . ."

Barry hesitated just a few steps past the couch. "Unless you _don't_ want this? Unless you're just going along with what _I_ want?" He asked quietly, concerned, giving Hal an out if he wanted one.

The thought that Barry wanted him—maybe even loved him, the way he had said he did last night—made Hal stupid. Happy, almost. "I—no—oh, just c'mere," Hal sighed, pulling Barry towards him. He gave up. Whatever was happening here was worlds better than the shit going down inside his head, and when Barry came close he could drown himself in him, forgetting about Carol for a little while. Now that he maybe hadn't raped Barry—and his internal jury was still out on that one—that fear lost a good amount of its power over him.

For a little while, he could lose himself in Barry. And for a little while, he did.

...

...

...

...

 **July 1st, 20xx**

 **Wayne Manor, Gotham, 9:27 AM**

 **Day 11**

It was nerve wracking to be in the Batcave at the best of times, and this was nowhere near those. Billy was still half convinced that this was an elaborate trap, and that in having Mr. Oliver and himself come to the seat of Batman's power, he'd be tried and found guilty in a jury of his peers.

There was a part of him that kind of hoped that be the case, too, because even though he'd promised Mr. Oliver he wouldn't stop fighting, he still felt guilty.

 _Because you are,_ he reminded himself. _This is the weight of your sins. There's no coming back from that. It's gonna be like this forever._

"Is it just me, or is it kind of frigid in here?" Oliver asked him, eyeing the technology around the room. "I mean, this is way too cold just to worry about computers overheating. Someone is compensating for something. Not sure what, but I know this to be true."

Green Arrow's odd statement eased the tension a little. While it brought a ghost of a smile to Billy's lips, Batman's butler, Mr. Pennyworth, raised a brow at him.

"It has gotten a tad chilly down here, as of late. If it is too uncomfortable, I can locate the thermostat?"

"That's fine, sir," Billy said. Not only was Mr. Pennyworth's authority absolute, he also had a British accent and that awed him a little. There were no refined British accents in the orphanages of his childhood, and he equated those who had them with intelligence, elegance, and honor, as opposed to the cockney accent, which he equated with John Constantine.

"It'll probably be better this way," Billy continued, trying very hard not to think of the British mage who had stolen his powers. What a dick. "We're probably gonna work up a sweat."

"Indeed," Mr. Pennyworth noted, and his expression was glacial enough that Billy had to swallow a wince. Even the butler couldn't forgive what he'd done. He was doomed.

In one of the dark corners of the cave, the Watchtower teleporter began to glow. "Incoming," Oliver muttered, and a legion of moths set up shop in Billy's stomach. Superboy had gone through just before he and Mr. Oliver arrived in order to escort Tim Drake and Dr. Leslie Thompkins to the Watchtower, so that Drake could avail himself of the most advanced and comprehensive medical equipment on—or off, as the case may be—the planet. Now he was returning, and Billy would have to make good on a promise he had no idea how to: to help wrest Superboy free of Ikonic control.

That Superboy's powers were only dampened, as opposed to hijacked as Billy's was neither here nor there. This was the test the New League had placed before him, and it was his first, and potentially only chance to prove himself. He had to find a way to help Kon-El, otherwise there might be no other chance to redeem himself through action. Were that the case, he would stew in his guilt for the rest of his unnaturally long life, left alone with his compounding failures, until maybe he'd go mad again—

Bony fingers judiciously applied to his shoulder brought him out of his unhelpful reverie. "Stand up straight," Oliver nattered. "Come on, kiddo. This is just like recess, except instead of trying to steal your milk money, he's trying to steal your autonomy. Don't be nervous just 'cuz he's older than you. Go on, and make me proud."

Alfred must have overheard because he glanced over, his eyebrows pinched in a frown. Before he could say anything, however, the teleporter pulsed, and after the bright flare of light, Kon-El Kent stood in the center of the machine, grim-faced and determined.

"You came," he noticed, not unkindly. "All right, then. Let's get this show on the road."

After a moment of hesitation, Billy nodded. He had a feeling there would be nothing about this to enjoy.

…

…

…

Two hours later, Billy had the empty gratification of knowing that his suspicions were correct. This was awful, and worse than that, not at all effective. For the past several hours, he had pushed Superboy as hard as he could, keeping in mind that his powers were only about half strength. Worse than that, they fluctuated, meaning that one moment Kon would be able to hold back Billy's barrage of (light) blows, and the next, Kon been thrown across the room, crumpling against the wall with a cry. Superboy was bruising black and blue, and although his determination hadn't flagged, he looked like the victim of domestic abuse.

None of this was helping Billy's sense of self, as a bully was the one thing he'd never, ever been. Worse still was that _it wasn't helping._ Kon could not even feel the beginnings of a breakthrough, something that had, although hard fought and even harder won, Billy had always been able to do. He'd never forgotten his mantra, after all. It was just when the wizard Shazam made him realize the power of it—the power of who he was—that he was able to overpower the Ikons.

Kon came at him with a cry, his eyes red from burst blood vessels. The last go round, he'd tried to use his heat vision and ice breath, to varying levels of success. His hold on tactile telekinesis was even shakier, although that didn't stop him from trying to use it to hold Billy still when he was punching him, to little avail.

"Maybe you guys should try something else?" Mr. Oliver suggested from the sidelines. "The punching bag looks like tired, and the puncher looks ready to cry. Take five, boys."

Kon broke away from him with a sigh of disgust. Billy searched for words that might make him feel better, because that was all he ever wanted to do—make people happy. In becoming a hero that need had expanded to including keeping people safe, as well, but currently he could accomplish none of those things, and it made him feel like a failure.

Kon whipped back around before he could find the words, however. "Tell me again," he demanded. "What did the wizard ask you?"

"My name," Billy admitted sheepishly, still embarrassed that he'd needed a reminder. "Who I was."

"But _why?"_ Kon stressed. "Why was that important?"

"Because . . ." Billy trailed off. An idea was beginning to form, although it was still nebulous enough, _weird_ enough that he wasn't sure it would work. Couldn't hurt to try, however. "Because I had forgotten something," he said slowly, beginning to pace around Superboy like they were boxers in the ring. "I had forgotten what makes me strong."

Kon began moving with him unconsciously, and the two young heroes circled each other. Kon even brought up his fists. "And what was that?"

"Nuh uh," Billy shook his head. "That's not what you need to know." Without warning, he flew in and went for an uppercut, which Kon deflected just in time. Two more punches and he pulled back, just long enough to say, "You need to determine the source of your own power."

Then he attacked in earnest, ignoring Mr. Oliver who started up a running, flippant, vaguely worried commentary. Kon was getting pummelled, but Billy didn't back down. He had been overwhelmed, _overcome_ when he had broken free. Maybe that was what Superboy needed, as well.

"Why are you so _weak_?" He yelled at Kon, just after a sweeping kick that made his opponent stumble back.

Kon wiped blood away from his face before snarling, "Because of their pulse, you ass!"

"So they're stronger than you?" Billy challenged, his voice harsh.

"Hell, no!" Kon yelled angrily, coming at Billy with a heat vision that sizzled and popped, and strength that fluctuated in fits and starts. He no longer hovered, his feet were firmly on the ground. "They can't keep me down!"

Billy dodged each of Kon's swings, blurring from one position to another. "They _are_ stronger than you," he said mockingly. "Look at what their magic has done to your Kryptonian powers. You can barely fly, your TTK's crap, your heat vision's a joke . . . what strength do you have left?"

"My own!" Kon roared, completely enraged. He landed a punch on Billy's shoulder, and the force was such that Billy nearly was blown back. He held his ground, but just.

 _Good,_ he thought. _It's working._

With the speed of Mercury, he gripped both of Kon's fists and held them, leaving his straining to break free. "And what strength is that?" He yelled into Superboy's face. "What are you, if not just another super-powered alien being?"

Billy's attitude, paired with his physical exhaustion and frustration, drove him towards the brink. "Me, goddamnit!" Kon cried. "I'm powerful because I'm _me_!"

There was no visual sign that anything had changed, but both Billy and Kon could feel the pulse of power as it emanated from Superboy. It was powerful enough to make Billy fall down squarely on his butt, and Kon shot five feet into the air, where all at once, his inhuman abilities all made themselves known: flight most obviously, but his eyes glowed red as lasers erupted through the fine mist of ice from his breath. Billy, who was close enough to brush his range of TTK, felt it rasp against his skin with almost physical force.

"Holey moley," he breathed. "It worked!"

"My word," murmured Mr. Pennyworth.

Arrow looked a little as if he didn't know who to approach first—Billy, who still sat on the floor, or Kon, who slowly began to float back down to it. "Did it work?" He finally asked, breaking the hushed silence.

Superboy's answering smile was wide, yet sharp. "Hell yeah. Wanna spar for reals, now, Shazam?"

"Not particularly," Billy said. "But I'd rather do that than what we _should_ do next."

"Oh?" Mr. Pennyworth asked.

Billy grimaced before floating back up to his feet. "Dibs on not calling John Constantine to make sure we did it right."

Oliver's phone dinged. After a glance down, he grinned and said, "Looks like you won't need to. Look what Zatanna just texted me."

All crowded round to read: _Not sure what you just did, but John's making happy noises. He also says to tell Billy to 'put your purse down, Sally,' because all his moping is making his heart hurt._

A moment later this was followed by, _You may also tell Billy I defended his honor by setting John's colander alight. He's grouchy again, and all is right with the world._

"Um," Kon said, intelligently. "I never quite know how to feel about them. Does she hate him? Or does she, you know. Love him?"

"Horrifyingly enough," Oliver said, slipping his phone into his pocket. "I believe the answer is both."

...

...

...

...

 **July 1st, 20xx**

 **Outlaws Safehouse, Gotham 12:18 PM**

 **Day 11**

The decision to leave Wayne Manor was made quietly, by Alfred, and orders were given with no fuss. Once Superboy got his powers back, or whatever the fuck was going on with him, Alfred made the call. It was none too soon in Jason's mind. Thanks to the newly passed "Luthor's Law," vigilantism was no longer merely illegal, it was a hanging offense, and capitol punishment stretched to any and all that assisted them.

They were all dead men walking, and it was only a matter of time before Gotham buckled under the pressure. Probably sooner rather than later, seeing as how James Gordon had been temporarily suspended from office due to his blatant superhero sympathies. Gotham, New York, San Francisco, and Central City were among the few main cities who were still bucking government orders to hand over any known associates of superheroes; most of America had at least nominally folded under the fear of attack from two sources—one, the nebulous 'Iconoclasts,' and the other, their heroes of old.

Between sealing off the Batcave from the Manor and discreetly moving confidential materials, daily use commodities and finally the people themselves from the Manor to the pre-selected safehouses, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot for Jason to do. At least, not in terms of what he was usually doing. While the busy work was important; frantic and tedious all at the same time, it was also not what he needed, which was to a) find Dick; b) blow the Ikons up; c) blow _something_ up; or d) get at least one sleep cycle wherein he didn't dream of his death, failure, or losing Richard Grayson yet again.

Jason had gone from having just about everyone he needed to be as stable as he could ever be to having only Alfred, Barbara, and Damian. Tim, too, but even that had been touch and go. And even then . . . being honest with himself, Damian was kind of a hard person to make a pillar of emotional stability out of. Babs too, if only because of the tension between them stemming from the fact that he had kind of accidentally stolen her boyfriend.

(Which really hadn't been his fault. He'd had zero idea that Dick was attracted to him until that one disaster-fraught mission two years ago where they'd laid into each other, first with words, then with fists, and then, when both had lost their sainted minds, their mouths. Jason had always been cool with taking sex where he could get it, but Dick was straight as a fucking arrow. Dick also meant way too much to him, outside of the bedroom/kitchen counter/dirty warehouse wall, wherever the case may be. He'd known it was going to be a trainwreck from the moment Dick had slammed their mouths together, but oh dear god, it had been too much—he'd _felt_ too much—to stop until they'd both come, all over their suits and each other.

After they had stumbled away from that first time, wide-eyed and desperate for each other and escape in equal measure, Jason had barely managed to convince himself it was a freak happening, a one time thing. All his attempts at cognitive dissonance were ruined four months later when they inevitably found themselves in the same position . . . except this time with Oracle listening in, sure they were going to fight to the death, rather than fuck.)

Things had gone from bad to worse for a long time, but somehow Dick had managed to pull him kicking and screaming into a relationship. Not that Jason ever called it that. Barring all the attending dangers of their superhero personas dating, he had never been able to imagine a future where Richard Grayson and Jason Todd were openly together. Dick would never be able to have a family, for one thing, and everyone knew how badly he wanted mini-Graysons. Even if Dick could somehow get around all that, Jason would have to stop killing people permanently, rather than struggling through a half years' hiatus. Might have to hang up his guns permanently.

Then they'd have to come up with a way of telling _Bruce._

Now that Dick was gone, however, Jason could do more than imagine a future together. Even though he felt like the worst boyfriend in the northern hemisphere, he wanted it like he wanted very little else, right when it truly was impossible.

 _At least I managed to say it,_ he tried to console himself. _At least he knew, before they got him._

The memory of their last time together before Dick was abducted was little comfort, but Jason couldn't stop himself from replaying it once again. He closed his eyes and remembered.

…

…

…

 _Jason had run out of the dining room with the echoes of Alfred's toast in his ears. He had been unable to voice any of the devastation that ruled him whenever he thought of Bruce being gone forever, beyond his reach. So like a coward, he ran to the sparring ring, desperate for something that would deaden the potency and immediacy of his grief. Tim proved no help at all, wanting to talk things through when Jason would rather bleed. Pulling a gun on him had been a dick move, but he wasn't fucking around, and it was a tiny bit gratifying to see how quickly the kid legged it out of there._

 _Being a brilliant little shit, however, he sent in the cavalry. Jason had no more than holstered his weapon and pushed himself through the first 16 steps of a 54 step kata when Dick Grayson was right there in front of his face, matching his step in the flow._

 _Jason stumbled midstep and Dick pressed the advantage. He broke the sequence seamlessly, and landed a basic jab cross to Jason's gut. He didn't even go for Jason's head, but the second blow made him fold. Maybe he hadn't wanted to be hurt after all. Maybe he was a spoiled little princess, but he kind of wanted to be held, instead._

 _Rather than reveal_ that _weakness verbally, he sank to his knees. "I can't talk about it," he said, tongue stumbling over all the unrelated things he wanted to say. "I can't talk about Bruce, not even to you."_

 _"I don't want you to," Dick assured him as he gracefully lowered himself to the ground just in front of Jason. "I just want you here with me."_

 _Dick was so good at saying all the things Jason never could. It just came naturally to him, like smiling, and forgiving, and loving shitheads that deserved to be taken out with the trash. "Dick, I can't. I—I can't do this."_

 _He was also good at ignoring what Jason said and listening to what he wanted instead. Using his nigh magical contortionist powers (because Jason wouldn't simply kneel there and let him hug him, of fucking course not) he folded Jason into his embrace, going so far as to tuck Jason's head down to his shoulder._

 _"I can't lose you, baby," he said, bluntly enough to make Jason's breath hitch in his throat. "That's what I can't do. It'll break me if you die again, Jay. I know I've been acting like a crazy person, but I'm so afraid every time you walk out the door that you won't ever come back, and if you're not here . . . I can't do this either." Dick let out a harsh laugh. "Jesus, I think that even if Bruce hadn't died, I wouldn't be able to do it."_

 _A fleeting memory a moment before his death rose before him: the doors to the warehouse, iron-grey; taking a breath before pushing them open to face the Joker. "I'm here," Jason said instead. "You won't lose me. I mean it."_

 _Dick pulled back, his wide blue eyes glimmering with unshed tears. They searched his as he snapped, "You can't promise you won't die. We all know how that goes."_

 _Jason thought back to barely a week ago, when they'd stood in the foyer of the Manson, talking about where he and the Outlaws would stay, but really discussing whether or not they'd stay together. Then, he'd barely been able to think the words Dick needed for reassurance. Now, he had lost so much and crashed so hard that he thought he could actually say them._

 _Time to find out. He swallowed thickly before admitting, "No, but I can promise that no matter what they do to me, I won't . . . I won't stop loving you."_

 _Dick's ragged inhalation of breath was just as powerful as his own exhalation. "Are you—did you just . . .? That was the first time you ever said that to me," he stated, amazed. "It's always me saying it to you."_

 _And now that he'd said it Jason suffered from several urges equally: the urge to hide his head against Dick's shoulder again, and to run away quickly, triggering explosions as he went. "Yeah well, if you make me say it again I will shoot you for reals."_

 _"Baby, baby, hey, come on, look at me," Dick prompted, rubbing his cheek against Jason's before Jason could pull away. "Do you mean it? Don't just say it to say it."_

 _All this, and he still didn't know how goddamned gone Jason was on him? He'd faced his rage and his past to step foot in the Manor again, with no intention other than to mess with Tim and Alfred a bit, and share a couple covert kisses with Dick. He'd hovered around Gotham for the past two years when he really shouldn't have, leaving him open to all sorts of emotionally debilitating run ins with Batman, and also Roy's escalating whining about how sick he was of Gotham winters. He hadn't even killed anyone for six months, even counting the recent assassination missions! And Dick still didn't know?_

 _"I mean it," he asserted, and even managed to make eye contact this time. "I mean it."_

 _"I love you I love you oh dear god I love you," Dick murmured in a single exhale before he kissed Jason, hard and unyielding, like they so often did. But that wasn't what Jason needed right now, so he softened his touch, slowing the kiss so that he could devote himself to the full experience of the warm, wet slide of Dick's mouth against his own._

 _Jason sighed into Dick's mouth, too desperate to hide their reactions. He needed comfort, needed stability, needed affection from the man who lit him up from the inside. He tugged at Dick, wanting to feel his body covering his. When he didn't get the picture, he resorted to murmuring his demands against Dick's lips._

 _"Need it to be you, tonight. Need you inside me."_

 _Jason had nothing against switching, but usually this happened the other way. Nothing sexual grossed him out, and he had a thing about catering to his partner's needs. Maybe it stemmed from low self-esteem, or maybe his first time having sex, where he was only half-aware and completely powerless, contributed to it. Either way, he was usually the one topping._

 _Tonight, however, he needed it the other way. He needed to be filled, cosseted, wrecked. Dick sucked in a surprised inhale before surging forward. Jason allowed his momentum to carry them down to the floor, so that his lover pressed down against him, bringing a knee to his groin, pressing against his rising erection. Jason bucked his hips against it. He didn't need foreplay. Right now, he needed the burn/stretch/pleasure/pain of being filled and fucked and from the bulge in Dick's pants, he needed it just as much._

" _Fuck me, Richard," he growled, knowing full well that Dick had a thing for him using his full name. He pulled off Jason's lips with a groan, and went to undressing Jason with a will. Once their shirts were torn off and thrown halfway across the sparring mat, they struggled with each other's pants, frantic in their urgency. Soon enough there was the slide of bare legs and soft drag of hair, a similar counterpoint to the gentle sweetness of their kiss with the rasp of stubble at the edges._

" _Face-to-face?" Dick murmured into a kiss._

 _Oh, hell no. Jason couldn't handle that tonight. His emotions were too raw, and while physical nakedness had never bothered him, emotional nakedness was goddamned terrifying. In response he broke the kiss and slithered free of Dick's hold so that he could roll over onto his knees._

 _He glanced over his shoulder and miracle of miracles, found himself capable of making a pun. "You coming?"_

 _Dick huffed out a breath of laughter. "Not without a condom, you dork."_

 _Jason tilted his chin towards his jacket. "Inside pocket, left side. With the bottle of lube and the collapsable knife."_

" _Oh yeah, because_ that's _the safest place to put your sexual paraphernalia," Dick snarked, but he crawled over to Jason's coat—and made even_ that _look sexy, what the hell—and after a moment of rummaging, drew forth the prophylactic._

 _Dick made his way back to Jason, and after pulling him back for another kiss, asked, "How much prep?"_

 _Jason had look away before admitting, "I wanna feel it tomorrow."_

 _And he would. After guiding him onto his hands and knees, Dick used all the lube but only two fingers to prepare him. Emotions riding high, Jason's breath was already hitching by the time Dick pulled his fingers out, wiping them on his discarded shirt. With a kiss to his shoulder, and a murmured assurance of his love, Dick pushed into him, slowly guiding his cock past the tight ring of muscle._

 _Jason's breath punched out of him. "Jesus, fuck," he grunted._

 _Dick stilled, only halfway inside of him. "Should I stop? More prep?"_

" _Fuck no," Jason gritted. "Didn't say it was a bad thing."_

 _And it wasn't, not entirely. Sure it burned like hell as Dick set up his steady rhythm, but Jason knew what real pain was. Over his career as a vigilante he'd been beaten, bludgeoned, stabbed, poisoned, shot, impaled, set on fire . . . and who could forget the time he'd been_ blown up?

 _This was nothing in comparison, and the pleasure he experienced not only from getting his prostate involved in the party but also from being close to Dick and giving him what he wanted was so much more than worth it. It was addicting, almost as much so as his feelings for his secret paramour, and the thought of losing Dick was just as unfathomable as it was for Dick to lose_ him.

…

…

...

With concentrated effort, Jason pulled himself out of the memory. It only served to hurt him by driving the point home—not two days after he had finally admitted to loving him, Richard Grayson had been taken from the Ikons. He would likely never see him again . . . or if he did, it would be in the same vein as Hal witnessing Carol's public demise.

 _But he wasn't dead yet,_ he reminded himself. At least, there was no proof of it. And if an Ikon waltzed in wearing his face, they'd have to provide DNA from a living sample to pass Bab's DNA test, so that meant it would be a strategic disadvantage to kill him, right?

Jason hoped so, but he'd hope for anything that would result in the miracle of Dick's not being dead. Because then _he_ would be dead in all the ways that really counted.

 _As soon as the war is over,_ he promised himself. _One way or another, this will be over._

 _..._

 _..._

 _..._

 _..._

 **July 1st, 20xx**

 **Constantine's apartment, London, 4:32 PM**

 **Day 11**

John Constantine watched as his former lover (Zatanna) and former protege (Tim. Well, kind of) tentatively interacted in his living room. Tim was still feeling a bit woozy from the last transfusion, struggling to steady himself from the rush of John's blood within his own, and the pervasive, degrading power of the Ikonic weapon. Zatanna only had one of those considerations to deal with, but after her week long imprisonment, she was packing some serious emotional baggage. All things considered, the fact that they were attempting to take tea on his sagging, mustard-colored couch was a little ridiculous, but they were going to have to do far more than that, in the very near future.

Hopefully it would be possible, now that Superboy and Shazam had managed to tear down another half a story of the Ikonic spell 'house.' Two and a half rather than a full four floors was far more manageable, but it was still too much to tear down on this side of the veil. They'd have to enlist demon aid.

John sighed. Maybe it was best that he interrupt the tentative rapport forming between his colleagues. Were Zatanna able to team up with Tim, no one would ever be able to find his body. And he was rather fond of his body, even though he was on the wrong side of 40 and smoked far too much. Things could be far worse, he consoled himself. He could be overweight, ugly, end up in a form that was too weak to house his immense magical power, or worse yet, _bald._

John shuddered. Lord bless and keep his glorious, sandy locks. The day he lost those, it was _over._

Zatanna's voice raised so that he could clearly hear they were talking about him. "Don't you think middle-aged men who have nothing better to do all day than stand there and stare at women and teenage boys have a problem, Tim?"

Tim gave John an awkward glance. He'd have to be half-dead or entirely stupid not to pick up on the pointed, passive aggression Zatanna had been directing towards him, ever since Tim had finally woken up. "Um, maybe he's waiting for us to finish?" He offered up, politely.

Zatanna narrowed her eyes at him. "You haven't known him long, have you?"

And that was enough of that. "All right, gather 'round kiddos. Papa's got news."

Tim and Zatanna watched him with identical expression of distaste, and John allowed that was the best choice of opening conversational salvo. "Oh, you know what I mean," he grumbled. "I've got a plan. It's about time to enact it."

"Is it a plan that results in my or Timothy's imminent demise?" Zatanna asked, acidly.

John liked to think he was a patient man, but there was not a lot of time. Zatanna's aggression had to be redirected, otherwise it might spell disaster for their endeavor.

He walked across his dingy living room carpet, dropping to his knees in front of her. She was surprised enough to hold his gaze. "I know you're angry, luv," he said gently. "With me and with them. And I promise you there will be time to be hurt, and a time to take it out on me. But it's not now. I need you focused, Z. Timmy-boy needs you to be focused."

Timmy-boy didn't back him up or anything, but John would like to think he agreed.

Zatanna's lips flattened. "Oh, I'm focused, John. Focused on hurting them the way they did me."

"You will," John assured her. One of her hands twitched in her lap, and he had the urge to hold it. She'd never let him, of course, but he still wanted to. "Christ, if you can smack them half as hard as you did me, we might as well just line them up for you, and the war would be over."

"This isn't a joke, John. I want to kill them. I want them _dead._ " Zatanna's expression was murderous, and Tim, who knew better than to join a conversation when a woman in it was furious, leaned back a little.

"And if we do our part, they will be."

"What exactly is our part?" Tim asked.

John winced before sitting back on his heels. He directed his gaze to the couch cushion between them before admitting, "It's the part you might not like all that much. We have to take a bit of a road trip."

Tim sighed. "Oh, bollocks. Where are we going? The Dreaming? Faerie? Some other misbegotten realm?"

" _Ohio?"_ Zatanna cut in, naming the worst place any of them could possibly think of.

"Nowhere so pleasant, I'm afraid." John tried to smile encouragingly, but it fell rather flat. "We're going to Hell."

...

...

...

...

 **July 2nd, 20xx**

 **Docks, Gotham, 2:57 AM**

 **Day 12**

The dark figure flit through the nighttime playground of Gotham's most squalid quarter, weighed down by neither fear nor morals. The 'residential area' abutting the Docks was not an area most people enjoyed venturing to, home as it was to crime bosses, escaped convicts, and the more dangerous element of Gotham's underbelly, but needs must when the devil drives, Damian Wayne decided as he stepped over the body of the sixth gang member to try and stop him. It was like they didn't know any better, although perhaps they could be excused. He hadn't exactly come out in his Robin costume; instead, he had scrounged parts of old costumes and even swiped one of Father's cowls. He _was_ getting annoyed at their persistence, however, and was beginning to see the wisdom in the Red Hood's copious use of firearms and explosives.

Much faster, that way. Also, less blood stains for Pennyworth to tut over. Really, it was a win-win situation for everyone involved that survived the experience. Much like the current mission he was on, even though he was fairly sure Oracle wouldn't see it that way.

 _Nor anyone else. At least, not yet,_ Damian mused as he checked his cryptographic sequencer-cum-radio scanner, ensuring he was close to his target. Only thirty yards away, although more than one hundred yards below the surface . . . yes, he was getting quite close. All that was left to do was to physically break into the bunker, avoid/dismantle/defeat all of the inhabitant's traps, and then convince the old codger to do as he wanted.

Damian was going to enjoy this next part. He could see the look on Deathstroke's face, now.

…

…

…

When Damian finally burst through the final trap—a room with thick, iron walls that filled up surprisingly quickly with water; leaving Damian no choice but to break through the drain, swim upstream, and end up in Deathstroke's bunker proper soaking wet—the expression on Slade Wilson's face was not quite as angry as Damian imagined. It was resigned, more than anything, like the old man had been waiting for a young superhero to come calling at 4 AM in rather the same vein as an elderly neighbor expects a bag of flaming dog feces on their doorstep.

"Oh, it's _you,"_ Wilson muttered, holstering his weapon before slumping down onto his well-worn couch. "Thought it'd be the other one."

 _He better not mean Todd,_ Damian thought darkly, shaking water from his limbs and trying not to emulate a dog. "You were expecting someone else? For a man who lives in a _nearly_ impenetrable bunker, you seem to have a surprisingly active social life."

Wilson muttered something that sounded an awful lot like _damn cocky teenagers,_ but Damian chose to ignore it in favor of furthering his own agenda.

"I came here for a specific reason—"

"I know," Wilson interrupted. "And my answer's no."

"I didn't know you were a mind reader as well as a mercenary," Damian snapped, stung.

Wilson chuckled, his gravelly accent deeper than Damian remembered from his days as Deathstroke. "You've come to ask me to stand against the Iconoclasts. You're going to appeal to the dregs of my humanity by pointing out they killed my daughter, her child's father, and a shit-ton of individuals that I was never so fortunate to kill, myself. Now, I'm impressed that you made it all the way to me, so I spared you by cutting to the chase. I'm not interested."

Too late Damian realized there was a snag in his plan. "Am I hearing this correctly? _Slade Wilson,_ the infamous Deathstroke is shying away from battle?"

Wilson shrugged. "What can I say, kid. I'm old. I'm retired."

That Deathstroke would hide from conflict was an outcome that he had never considered, and it left him scrambling for an argument that would change his mind. "And is Ravager the only family that matters to you? What of her son; your grandson?"

Wilson let out a bark of laughter. "Please. I know exactly where he is, and how safe he is, at any given moment. Your Pennyworth has training that rivals mine, and he's _good_ with children. Mike's safer there, and if he has any chance of surviving this war, it'll be with Pennyworth."

Damian blinked. He had expected Wilson to write off the connection entirely, as Ra's al Ghul had done for him. Clearly it meant nothing to the Master of the League of Shadows that his grandson stood against him, nor did his continued existence. That Deathstroke cared enough for the remainder of his progeny to ensure his safety, even if it meant leaving the boy to be raised among strangers, moved him . . . insofar as one such as he could be moved.

Wilson's choice of words gave him an idea. "The war will not stop with us. The 'Iconoclasts,' as the media have deemed them, _are_ an alien race, and they have already infiltrated the White House. They mean to clear the planet of human life. There will be no surviving down in bunkers after we are gone."

Wilson's lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed. For a moment Damian thought he had gotten through to him—or angered him, which was far more likely, actually—but then he drawled, "Well, it's a good thing I have such faith in all of you, then, because my answer is unchanged. No."

Damian lost his tenuous grip on his formidable temper. He had been raised from childhood to attack when he caught any sign of weakness, and especially when there was not. "Look at you," he hissed. "Sitting old and lazy on your comfortable couch. I was wrong to come here. What use would you even be to me?"

"Watch it, kid," Wilson warned him. "Or I'll kick your ass, old or not."

"Could you even muster up the energy?" Damian wondered aloud. "Your time has passed. Your fighting spirit has been utterly extinguished, hasn't it? That is why you hide out here, alone and ineffectual. You don't have the stomach for battle, do you?"

Deathstroke stared at him unflinchingly with his pale blue eyes. What his wooden expression meant Damian did not know, but the tension in his body language betokened imminent attack. Damian centered himself, his body on high alert for Wilson's attack, but when he moved it was to sigh, stand up, walk around the couch, baring his back to him, no less, and shuffle into the kitchen.

He drew up, affronted. How dare Wilson simply leave the conversation without a further word? He made to move after him, but two small, plastic missiles stopped him in his tracks. Reacting on instinct, he caught one and then the other, not realizing they were pill bottles until he looked down at the orange and white packaging, the pills rattling within.

 _Donepizil,_ one read. _Memantine,_ read the other.

Heart sinking, Damian understood Deathstroke's reluctance. "You have Alzheimer's?"

Wilson stood in the doorway of the kitchen, body still tense, expression resigned. "All those tests, all those physical modifications to make me the perfect weapon and we still don't have a cure for Alzheimer's," he said bitterly. "I've known for almost two years. Nobody else knows, but I have a feeling you'd be here all night if I didn't tell you, and as I said, I'm an old man," he huffed with mirthless laughter. "I need my sleep."

"That's why you deny me?" Damian asked, wide-eyed and angry. "Because you're dying?"

"That not a good enough reason?"

Damian shook his head, at a loss for words. He understood that differences in upbringing and culture affected all individuals on a deep and personal level, but never before had he felt the cultural divide between himself and another so keenly as he did in this moment. "I don't understand you," he admitted. "You are as a good as dead, and yet you persist in mere survival?"

Wilson frowned at him, confused. "Our days are numbered at birth, kid. I'm just eking out to the end of mine."

"And for what do you preserve your life, when your end precludes even the possibility of reliving your moments of glory?"

Wilson pulled a face. "Wow, didja' swallow a dictionary or something? One of us sure as hell got bullied in school."

"Listen to me," Damian said, as earnestly as he ever could. "Do you _want_ to die like this, old and alone and surrounded by fading memories of your past? Or do you want to die like a warrior, with a blade in your hands? Are you Arthur, dying of a broken heart? Or are you Beowulf, whose end was a dragon?"

 _That_ got through to him, although why the mention of mythological heroes roused him when Damian's rational arguments did not was beyond him. Deathstroke eventually sneered and said, "You're a child. What do you know of death?"

Damian looked him dead in the eye as he admitted, "I know how _I_ intend to die." After a moment of reflection, he nodded and allowed, "Again."

There was a long, steely moment of silence. Damian had plenty of time to plan out two separate contingency plans for Wilson's inevitable refusal, and equally probable angry attack. That he hadn't done so yet was more likely connected to watching his blood pressure, rather than any actual concern for Damian, or considering his offer.

But when Slade Wilson finally spoke, it was to Damian's surprise.

"All right then," he said. "Tell me your plan."

…

…

…

…

...

 **Maybe the best words I have ever strung together are 'drew forth the prophylactic.' I am well pleased.** **Go me!**

 **I realize Slade's medications are not brand names for Alzheimer's, but I steered clear of those on purpose.**

 **It might seem like Hal is magically ok now that sex is involved, but he is not. Wait for it. He's a large presence in Arc 3 as well as Arc 4, so he's got a longer road for development than most, and it will be paced out accordingly.**

 **On a lighter note, I'd like to imagine that Hal and his Netflix account are of serious concern to half the characters in this fic, and he is the one who cares the least about it. Between Carol and Ollie and Barry I'd imagine his watchlist is kind of amazing, and he likes none of those shows. Hal's life is hard.**


	11. Ch 10 - Of Humans and Hell

**Oh hey, an update. Which kind of fits our story timeline, too.**

 **If you haven't noticed, I have zero idea how news anchoring works. I apologize.**

 **Kon quotes Michael Crichton's 'Viking proverb' from Eaters of the Dead, sometimes published as The 13th Warrior.**

 **I also apparently quoted the movie 'Troy.' So there you go.**

 **Remember this is not in the main DC universe, so not all characters have interacted in ways you might have expected them to. In this universe, Trigon was never killed, but he has also never explicitly targeted Earth, either, and thus was not the main enemy of the Justice League . . . and any immediate family members he may have.**

 **(Yes. It is time for all good half-demons to come to the aid of the party.)**

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Of Humans and Hell**

* * *

 **July 2nd, 20xx**

 **Washington Memorial, D.C. 11:00 AM**

 **Day 12**

The mass of protesters stood shoulder to shoulder in the beautiful space; muddy shoes dirtying the pristine lawn. It had rained all morning, but it was not enough to keep the most steadfast away, and they numbered in the thousands. By 11:00 AM, the iconic space was jam-packed with people of all colors and creeds, sharing one determination.

 _Save our Heroes_ one cardboard sign, held aloft, read.

 _Stand By Them_ read another.

 _Tell us the TRUTH_ read a third.

Nazir al-Ahmad, the news anchor presiding over the protest, was a polished looking, middle-aged gentleman with a soft voice and a calming demeanor. He lowered his finger from his earpiece upon receiving the studio's cue.

" _Rolling in 3, 2—_ " echoed from the little earbud.

"I'm standing here today in front of the White House Lawn where what is popularly dubbed 'the Heroes' Rally,' is going strong," he began, his faint accent coloring his message. "People have traveled from all over the country to prove their determination to stand by their heroes, seeing them as distinct from the alien Iconoclasts. As you can see, the lawn is full to capacity. This is no quiet murmur of discontent."

The cameras panned out over the lawn, where the number of bodies packed into the huge space was mind-boggling. Thousands of signs were waved overhead, many supporting a specific or a number of notable heroes: The Flash, Green Lantern, Green Arrow, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Batman, Robin, Nightwing, Black Canary, Superman . . . there were some who held aloft signs with images of Plastic Man on them, and there were even one or two Shazam supporters in the crowd.

"Among them are prominent members of many of America's most powerful cities," the news anchor continued. "Politicians, business moguls, socialites and other notable personages from Central City, Gotham, Coast City, Seattle, Bludhaven, Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, Atlanta, and even Chicago are present. There are reports that government officials from several of those cities, among others, went so far as to organize public transport for those who could not reach DC on their own."

"As of yet, the White House has yet to respond, although they have sent out—as you can see—a staggering number of FBI and Secret Service to keep the peace. Thankfully, no one has tested their vigilance. I can only hope they continue this peaceful trend."

Piped in over his earbud was the voice of the studio announcer asking, "There seems to be a number of signs with Carol Ferris's picture on it—what can you tell us about that?"

"Ah, yes," he replied. As he spoke, the cameraman zoomed in at a group of protestors, all holding a cardboard sign with a picture of Carol at her execution plastered to it. "There appears to be quite a bit of attention paid to the fate of Carol Ferris, former owner and director of Ferris Aircraft. While there were rumors that she had once been the vigilante 'Star Sapphire,' there is no hard evidence of this. Even during the trial, she was only guilty of assisting in the ill-fated evacuation of Chicago, yet was executed along with Theodore Kord and Michael Carter. She has become a rallying point for the mob, and we have footage from earlier, when—"

He cut off when the low-level roar of the crowd, indistinct in its muttering ebb and flow, sharpened into something more concentrated.

 _"Speech. Speech. Speech!"_ The crowd chanted, coalescing into a unison.

"They appear to be calling for an answer from President Luthor— _,"_ Mr. al-Ahmad cut off as a lone figure stepped up onto a five-foot stepladder, wielding a megaphone.

The crowd quieted when the figure—female, middle-aged, dark-haired—gestured sharply for quiet. After a suitable hush fell, her voice roise high above the crowd, distorted and enhanced by the megaphone.

"We have watched the rise and fall of our superheroes, the deaths they have suffered and caused," she said, in a well-educated voice. "Yet we have also watched the execution of a woman who was no different than us. Carol Ferris was put to death for listening to those she trusted, and acting in what she thought was the best course of action. Her only error was in trying to save lives, not knowingly participating in terrorist activity!"

The crowd swelled its agreement, and from the far corner, hundreds of individuals began to chant _Carol, Carol, Carol._

The spokeswoman continued, her voice rising. "We the people of the United States of America, want to know if this will be our fate someday. Can you offer us any assurance it will not?"

The silence from the White House was deafening.

...

...

 **July 2nd, 20xx**

 **Safehouse, Gotham, 1:18 PM**

 **Day 12**

It was not a well-rested Damian Wayne who answered the skype hail, and thus it was not a very pleasant Damian Wayne, either. Even the unexpected, albeit familiar face on the other end of the world did not cheer him up.

Well, not very much. And not that he'd ever _dream_ of showing it, if it did. _That_ would only be absurd, and—

"Hey there, Dami!" Stephanie Brown enthused, waving like an imbecile and wearing a tired, but genuinely happy smile, which caused some warm and pleasant feeling to flood through him.

Damian narrowed his eyes at her and growled in response.

Brown's smile grew wider, and now her eyes reflected its mirth. "Aw, I miss you too, bud. So does Cas. I mean, maybe a little less than I do—I'm pretty sure Tim is her favorite—but—"

"Is there a purpose to this call?" Damian interrupted both her and the odd, fluttery feeling in her thoracic cavity that had begun the moment she'd admitting to missing him. Foolishness, all of it.

Now Brown looked put out. "Well, _yeah._ I mean, it's only taken how many days for Oracle to clear this line, and you're whining that I'm using my precious free time to call you? Not how you deal with the ladies, buddy."

"I don't need you to teach me any of _that,"_ Damian growled.

Brown waggled her eyebrows at him, bringing the conversation to a point where it was beyond Damian's ability to deal with.

"What do you _want?"_ He ground out.

"To see your petulant face," she said smilingly, which faltered a little when she continued on with, "And your bare chest, apparently. Do you not use shirts anymore? Dang, you're bigger than I remember. And that's—oh wow, that's a Waynelet nipple. Damn, I feel so dirty." A moment later, in tones of startled wonder, "Why are you still in bed? Wait, more importantly, are you _aging?_ You need to stop that. That is not allowed. _"_

"I will age as I please. You are beyond ridiculous," Damian ended in a mutter, belatedly shrugging on the t-shirt sitting at the edge of his bed. Trust Brown to call on the one night he hadn't slept in half of his costume. Trust Brown to call when he hadn't even made it out of bed.

Trust Brown to bring color to his cheeks with her artless ridiculousness!

"Yet you still haven't hung up on me," she pointed out smugly.

"Because I want to know the purpose of the call!" He said, louder than he needed to. "Everything is falling to pieces here, you can't just be calling to say hello!"

"Of course I can," she said, suddenly serious. " _Because_ I can. Don't think we haven't been updated on what we've lost. Bruce is gone, Tim was tortured, Dick is captured, and Barbara is about to lose her mind on the next thing that goes wrong. So if I want to see your grumpy face and hear your grumpy voice, and tell you that I will kick your grumpy ass into the next calendar _year_ should you consider dying or being captured, I will do so, at great length and volume."

Damian was so stunned at her vehemence that it took him a long moment to muster up the necessary rebuttal. "That doesn't mean I have to like it," he responded, although even he knew that was a lie. Often times her bossy nature annoyed him, but when she used it to wedge herself more deeply into his life, he found the effect was oddly pleasurable as well.

Brown smiled weakly at him. "Yeah, well, at least you're talking. Jason barely managed to answer yes or no questions. He was seriously like a zombie, I had to get Cas on the line to bully him into some sign of life." She sighed. "My next call won't be much better, I suppose, unless Tim is still high on painkillers. Then it might be hilarious, who knows . . ."

Damian was irrationally pleased that she had called him before Drake, but also somewhat displeased that she had called Todd first. Still, he could not deny that it would be for their benefit if Cain could talk some sense into Hood.

"Did you know about them?" He asked. "Todd and Grayson, I mean."

She shrugged. "Not til Kon let it drop the other day, but Cas wasn't surprised at all. She said it explained the shift in their body language that she noticed about a year ago." She eyed him warily. "You don't like it, do you?"

He had learned from his misstep with Pennyworth, who clearly hadn't appreciated his honesty, or candor. "No," he said simply, leaving his reasons why unsaid.

She rolled her eyes. "You Republican."

The disgrace that was American politics had nothing to do with it, but Damian was unwilling to get into this with her now. Not least because of the embarrassment of Pennyworth's coup hanging heavily over him.

"Is Cain there?" He asked instead.

Brown mock pouted. "What, do you like her better than me?"

There should be no difference in his feelings of like or dislike for either of them, and yet that was so laughably untrue that he actually worried—a very small amount, but the concern was there—that Brown would someday learn that he not only liked her far better than Cain, but far better than the vast majority of the people he'd ever met.

"Clearly."

Brown snorted. "Oh, stop being a grumpy old man and save the world, Dami."

"You just want to come back and eat waffles," he grumbled. While he could not begin to fathom the mystery of her illogically ordered mind, he knew her culinary motivations, and they were legion.

"That is entirely true," she said as brightly as she could. "Save the world, Dami! Then I'll buy _you_ waffles!"

" _Cain_ ," he reminded her, if only to silence his treacherous mind that pointed out she was outlining a date, and that there was a small chance—a miniscule one— that he might actually accept the invitation were she to actually extend it.

She gave him one more wave, and ducked out of sight. It was surprisingly clumsy, even for her, one of the least graceful members of the fighting squad.

Barely a minute later, a small, lithe figure stepped into view. It was done so quickly and quietly that she moved in the space of Damian's blink.

"Hello, little brother."

Damian had to be careful how he dealt with the Black Bat. She was the deadliest of all of them, although tempered by her close friendship—sisterhood, she'd claim—with Brown. "Hello," he replied, pleasantly enough.

"You were lying," Cassandra Cain said, in her quiet, expressionless voice.

"About?"

Cain smiled secretively. With her microexpressions, it was the barest uptick of one corner of her mouth. "I'm not your favorite."

Damian narrowed his eyes at her, determined to not say anything else the entire conversation.

Cain could undoubtedly read his obstinance. Far before she learned to speak, she learned to decipher body language. She continued on, giving him a fairly succinct report of her and Brown's dealings in China. They had been laying low as best they could, but had also engaged in guerilla warfare tactics along several other allies against an ever-increasing number of assassins from his grandfather's League of Shadows. The assassins' attacks had tapered over the last few days, but Cain did not think they had seen the last of them.

"Our sister is fighting well," Cain finished with, after allowing that she, personally, had killed more than 25 of his grandfather's finest over the last two weeks. "Although I want her to be less reckless. She would not have so many injuries, otherwise."

"Injuries?" Damian asked, in spite of himself.

"Most not too severe, but her back was . . . ripped open during our last fight. It's healing well, but I was worried."

Damian stilled, furious. Flashes of Brown injured raced through his mind, leaving any other coherent thought impossible. Cain read all this, and dipped her head towards him.

"You are angry. Perhaps it would be good to tell you. The one who hurt her is dead."

 _I'd kill them ten times. Thirty,_ Damian thought, with atypical largesse. "Good," he replied, his voice dark.

Now her head tilted to the side, like a bird. Although she could read human social cues to perfection, it was still a challenge for her to perform them. "It was momentous. I believe it was the first man she'd ever killed."

 _"She_ killed him?" Damian asked, astounded.

"Just three days ago."

"But she was no different!" Damian protested. "That can't be right. She was laughing and smiling and she . . . How could it not affect her? Should it not affect her?" He was fairly sure about this. He'd heard enough stories about Todd's downfall, and Dick's journey from Robin to Nightwing to be so.

The Black Bat smiled minutely. "You are a great source of normalcy for her, little brother. The thought of conversing with you stabilized her. Perhaps you might even be a part of what keeps her morals from slipping, in the aftermath." She gave a tiny shrug, last minute, as if she just remembered she should do so. "Who knows?"

Damian scoffed. "Me? I'm to keep her morals from 'slipping?' Have you forgotten what I've done? What I've lived? Who I was raised to be?"

"Do you _want_ her to keep killing?"

He took a deep breath, and thought of his mother. He tried to imagine Brown as a cold-blooded killer, like her. "No," he admitted, and it was from his heart, not his head.

"Then support her and do not let her," Cain said with an enigmatic smile.

"How could I affect such a change?"

"You are important to her," she said quietly. "And someday I think you may adopt a more . . . hands on approach to her happiness, but for now, I think things must simply remain the same. That will be enough. Just be what you were before, and it will make her feel normal as well."

The meaning of her entendre hit him with all the force his teenage body with rampant hormones could stand, and Damian flushed hotly. "I will do whatever I deem appropriate to keep her from our path. As to anything else, I don't know what you're insinuating."

Cain merely smiled at him, and Damian officially hated his entire family.

...

...

...

 **July 2nd, 20xx**

 **Watchtower, 5:29 PM**

 **Day 12**

Kon sat at Tim's bedside, staring down at his unconscious face, and thought about Cassie. Smart, sassy, gorgeous Cassie, who was pretty much the only other person his age that could match him blow for physical blow. He felt as if one of the great loves and true equals of his life had been torn away from him, but it could have been worse. If they hadn't gone through a rather final break up six months ago, he would have been destroyed.

 _Destroyed._

Not that he wasn't most of the way there anyway, but it might have tipped him over the edge. And while he refused to talk about it, even to Tim, he couldn't keep himself from poking at the jagged edges of his loss.

Here was the weird bit. He'd always assumed that losing Cassie would be the hardest thing, but having technically lost Tim for six hours had set him straight on that. But Tim had come home, Kon was staring at his sleeping face right now, and Cassie was still not the worst loss of his life.

Somehow, _amazingly,_ Kara was, and shit, Kon didn't know how to deal with that. They weren't siblings, yet Clark had always insisted on treating them as such, so she was like that annoying sister who sometimes was dating her magical, celestial horse because why the heck not. Truth be told, Kon didn't even _like_ her, actively disliked her, even, because a) she was sometimes dating a horse, b) she liked quinoa way too much for any normal person, and c) whenever they got into arguments (which was just about always) she had this habit of reminding him that he wasn't actually full Kryptonian, so any defect in his nature must stem from his human (evil) 'father.'

But now that she was gone, he missed her like hell. He even missed her annoying voice, although all he could remember was her nagging him. Cassie went without saying, as he'd do just about anything to have her back, but to miss Kara to this extent?

 _I didn't know how much I loved either of them until they were gone,_ he realized. It reminded him of something he'd read in one of Tim's favorite books, and he reflected on it now.

'Praise not the day until evening has come, a woman until she is burnt, a sword until it is tried, a maiden until she is married, ice until it has been crossed, beer until it has been drunk.' For the life of him he couldn't remember who said it, nor if it was fiction or non-fiction—the book had been fighty and historical and weird, and even after he finished it he wasn't quite sure what was what—but that one quote caught him. It meant something to him on a fundamental level, and he'd thought of it longer than he could remember the plot of the story.

It made him think of the two women he had (somewhat begrudgingly) loved, one as a sister, the other as a woman. Kon suspected he was twisting the meaning of the proverb, as he was pretty sure it was supposed to advise you not to fear until everything was over, or celebrate before the party started, but he couldn't shake it from his mind. Maybe it was the line about the women being burnt, which Tim had assured him was a standard Viking cremation, not anything horrific like being burned alive, but all he could think of was how fitting it was to say goodbye to them only after death.

Or maybe it was just his way of promising himself that he would grieve them, he would allow his heart to break for them, when all this was over.

"Praise not the day until evening has come," Kon murmured. "And this ain't over until I say it's over."

"Are you . . . misquoting Michael Crichton?" Tom said blearily, opening his eyes and scaring the living shit out of Kon. "Also, I'm fairly sure that's not what he meant."

Kon took a second to sit still and age quietly and not die of a damned heart attack. "Oh, so you wake up _now,_ but not when I whisper dirty things to you in your sleep? C'mon, Timmers. Where is the love?"

"You do not whisper dirty things to me when I'm asleep," Tim said tiredly. He glanced up at Kon, and for a moment his gaze was so sharp and assessing Kon almost forgot he was still critically injured.

"You're thinking about Cassie, aren't you?" He asked. "Or Kara. Our team. You're mourning them."

Kon's jaw clenched. Even though this was Tim, he couldn't find the words. He thought he'd be forgiven, however, as Tim had been unable to talk about Bruce, who was just as important to Tim as Kara and Cassie were to Kon.

"So, segue," he said, and he was proud of how normal his voice sounded. "Are you gonna be mad if I found out a secret before you did?"

Tim narrowed his eyes at him. The effect was augmented by the slowly-healing holes in his lips. "Most likely."

Kon winced. "Then I _don't_ know something you don't know."

" _Kon-El."_

Kon cracked a smile. This was good. This was normal. Well, as normal as it could be when they were both staggering under the loss of those they loved, and Tim was broken like an angry child's toy. Still, it was something he could work with.

"How old is Shazam, again?"

Tim frowned. "His age in the database is 36. Why?"

"I, uh. I don't think he's 36."

"Off by 5 years? 10?" Tim asked, curiosity piqued.

"Oh, I'm thinking more than that," Kon admitted. "Green Arrow let it slip that he's younger than I am. I'm assuming he meant how old I appear, as I was grown in a test tube and aged rapidly, but there you go."

Tim's eyes flared wide. "What?" He coughed a little, the sudden excitement not good for him.

"Woah, take it easy, buddy. And hey, I figured he does say holey moley a lot, which only middle-aged women or 12-year-old boys say, so—"

"I know we always say you're my age, but he can't be less than 19. He can't be less than _20_ years old," Tim argued as soon as he'd gotten ahold of himself. "That's just. . . he's fought in the League for longer than I've been Robin,and Bruce didn't invite Dick to the League even as an honorary member until _he_ was over 20 years old and Nightwing, and—"

"Yeah, but Dick's not powered with the might of an ancient, magical wizard," Kon pointed out. "Think that changes things a bit."

Tim leaned back against his pillows. "If you are right, I am going to be so pissed." And then, a moment later, "I _knew_ he wasn't socially adjusted enough for a man in his 30's. I thought Asperger's, or some social maladjustment trauma, but this would present a different solution to the quandary."

"Woah, buddy. Those are the big words. Save those for our enemies, yeah?"

" _Kon_."

He leaned back a little, instinctively feeling that Tim wanted to swat at him, even if he was still too weak to do so. "Yeah?"

Tim gave him a grumpy, tired look, the one that made Kon think of disgruntled cats. Kon liked disgruntled cats. He figured it was one of the fundamental reasons why Red Robin and Superboy got along so well. "I need something to do."

He had the feeling that he didn't mean a crossword. He also knew that Tim really would swat him if he made a joke right now, so he buckled down and got serious. "You want me to talk to Oracle for you?" He said, hesitantly. He hadn't forgotten the dressing down he'd gotten after blowing his cover.

Tim grinned faintly. "Just back me up when I demand a turn at the monitoring equipment, ok? I'm not going to have a seizure and endanger anyone. I'm stable, and my brain was undamaged."

Kon pursed his lips. The futility of bringing up any psychological damage Tim had suffered would be a topic for a better man and another time, but he couldn't quite let that slide. "Are you sure? Really, Tim. Are you up to it?"

"I need this, Kon," Tim stressed. "I can't just lay here and remember. I have to do something. I have to help."

"Anything?" Kon clarified. His most recent phone call with Lois (she insisted on mothering him even though he was almost in his 20's) came to mind.

"Anything."

"All right, buddy. I think I got something for you. But I don't think you're gonna like it . . ."

...

...

...

 **July 2nd, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 9:27 PM**

 **Day 12**

The line connected with a click, and an exhausted-sounding Barbara Gordon picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, Oracle, hi," Lois began with her customary energy. "Got good news and bad."

"Oh sassafras," Barbara said, and it was unexpected enough that it momentarily derailed Lois's train of thought.

"Sassafras? Haven't heard that since my last foray to the Deep South oh, about 100 years ago. What's brought that word into your vernacular?"

That dragged a reluctant chuckle out of Barbara. Now that Lois had been tested and they knew she was who she claimed to be, Barbara allowed herself the treat of enjoying her conversation. "It's either that or swearing up a storm, and now that Michael Wilson is in earshot of the monitors in the Watchtower, Alfred has asked me to be a touch more circumspect. Besides, it has character, and makes me feel like shit isn't going as badly as it actually is."

Lois nobly refrained from pointing out that Barbara had just uttered a swear word, thus undoing her efforts to keep Deathstroke's three-year-old grandson's vocabulary pure. Instead, she moved onto _why_ she had called.

"Got you. So, can I go back to the good and bad news . . .?"

"All right, hit me. Good news first."

Lois winced. "It doesn't exactly work that way, I'm afraid. The good news and the bad news are exactly the same piece of news."

Barbara hesitated. "And they would be . . .?"

"It boils down to this: the pro-superhero rally held on Luthor's new lawn? Completely uncontested by the government. As far as my extensive network can determine, there has been no arrests, no disappearances . . . hell, no one has even been _fired_ since taking part in the protest. Chastised, even! It's like Luthor doesn't even care!"

"That's bad . . . why?"

Lois blamed that on lack of sleep. "Barbara, Lex Luthor—or, the Ikon wearing his bald-headed body—should absolutely care. That he doesn't is probably a bad thing, because it means that in the long run—"

"—they don't care at all about civilians, just the superheroes," Barbara murmured, finally catching on. "And if they're not wasting time or energy on stamping out mass disapproval—"

"—they're focusing on the next part of the plan to take down the supers," Lois finished. "We need to up the ante."

"Oh, fu—udge," Barbara said. "This is going to completely derail our schedule."

"Is it, though? As far as I can tell the only way forward is a direct confrontation. We need to outright accuse the Luthor-Ikon of a vendetta against the superhero community, and there's really only one person left who can pull that off."

"Superboy," Barbara agreed. "His half-alien, half-human hybrid son slash clone. To maximize effectiveness, we're going to have to leak Kon-El's origins, however, and leak it now."

"Leave that to me," Lois said, mentally planning through her next four moves, and six sources to leak that information to. "Make his medical files public, and I'll get them on every news show in America. By this time tomorrow everyone in the United States will know exactly how Kon-El Kent came into being."

"And then he can denounce the President and the majority of his cabinet."

Lois let out a short bark of laughter. "That's our boy. He won't be immediately destroyed by whatever they send after him—unless they send an Ikon, which they can't as long as they're denying they exist—and he's one of the last peaceable figures left in our community. He's totally untouched by all this drama because they thought he was dead this entire time, _and_ he's the last person standing from the Metropolis superfamily, who Luthor has done his best to memorialize as the last good guys. It's gotta be him. We don't have any other options."

"I know, I know. I just—he was our wild card, and now that his power is back online, I'm afraid to wave him around in front of the enemy."

Lois hesitated. Although she was weathering still the grief of losing her home—and Jimmy, and Perry White, and pretty much everyone else she knew and loved in that crazy, beautiful city—she had not lost her heroes. Clark was safe offworld, and while she knew _he_ would mourn Bruce and so many others in the community, they weren't her hero the way that Bruce was Barbara's. She had not lost a sibling, like Kon (kind of) had. She had not lost a father figure like Bruce's remaining sons had.

Her faith in the superhero community had not been shaken at a fundamental level, because as long as Clark was alive, she would keep on believing. He was the hero above all others for her, although Kon came kind of close. She believed in him more than anyone else at this point, and if he could channel a little bit of Clark in the coming days, she couldn't envision failure.

"We are not going to lose him, Barbara," she said, speaking with a confidence she hoped would inspire her co-conspirator. "We are not going to lose, period. All we need to do is buy Clark and the Green Lanterns time, and they are going to wipe the Ikons from the face of the earth."

Barbara sighed. Then, "I'm really glad you're human, Lois. You have all the confidence that we need, right now."

"Damn straight I do," Lois said. "Why do you think Superman is so in love with me?"

...

...

...

 **July 3rd, 20xx**

 **London, England, 3:13 AM**

 **Day 13**

John hadn't done one of Hecate's rituals in a long, long time, and as soon as the blood started pumping from the goat's severed artery, he remembered exactly why. Bloody annoying, in all senses of the term. Also he rather liked goats, and seeing one bleed to death on the blacktop of a parking lot outside an abandoned meat packing plant was just heart-wrenching.

It had bleated at him as it died. Painfully. _Mournfully._

"Yuck," Tim Hunter said, and it was an entirely apt summation, or so John felt.

"And now you see why the old rituals are out of style," he pointed out.

"Oh, just get it _over_ with," Zatanna complained, shuffling her shoes out of the path of the blossoming blood stains.

Never one to argue with his past love, John did. "Oh Goddess Hecate," he began, skipping over some of the boring bits of the ritual and going straight to the good stuff. "Watcher of the liminal boundaries, mistress of doors, lady of choices, we call upon you now to aid us in our quest to save humanity."

"That's not going to work," Zatanna muttered, still fractious. Ever fractious. Always fractious.

"Shh," he shushed her, out of the corner of his mouth before continuing, "Trifold goddess; mother, maiden, crone, come down upon us and bestow us with your key to—"

"All right, all right, already!" An aged, feminine voice called out from halfway across the blacktop. "I can hear your intoning all the way 'cross London!"

There was the click of loose-heeled shoes against the pavement, and then the speaker stepped into the dim light afforded by the ritual candles, set up in a pentagram around the deceased goat. It was an old woman, small and frail, with wild gunmetal frizz for hair and dressed a bit like Mary Poppins on a bad day.

"Mad Hettie?" John breathed, before realizing she might not take well to that sobriquet.

Mad Hecate dipped a little curtsy, her cockney accent thickening. "In the flesh, love. Well, her flesh. For a bit. It's all right—she's one of mine, you know. Technically. 'S why she's lived so long."

John nodded before Zatanna or Tim could stick their uninitiated oars in. "Oh, well. That's fine then. So you, uh. Know why we rang?"

Mad Hecate nodded, her hair springing with the motion. "Oh, yes, duckies. You're looking for a way into Hell. Nasty place, this time of year. Well, all the times of the year, obviously, as there's no such thing as time, in the Hell Dimension. Or anywhere, really. Are you sure you want to go? I could send you instead to the Lost Temple of the Olmecs. _Beautiful_ weather down there, as long as you avoid the poisonous snakes and frogs which have set up their own cultural system in the ruins."

She leaned forward and whispered, importantly, "They sacrifice mosquitoes, and do you know how many plagues they have single-handedly kept from ever reaching a single human? At least six, by my last count. It's good work, they're doing."

"Err, as fascinating as that sounds . . ." John floundered, really a bit more interested than he should be in mosquito sacrifice.

"No thank you," Tim cut in, with his characteristic earnest civility. "We're on a bit of schedule."

"Are you?" She tittered. "Well, then. Let me have a look at you before we get things started." Mad Hecate peered closely at Tim, her large eyes luminous in her face. Tim held up well under her scrutiny, but John remembered he'd done no less to two of the Endless, and he felt a passing pride in the boy. He'd do all right. Better than him, by most accounts, and John was glad for it.

"I don't like your mother," she said finally, and John felt his blood freezing in his veins. Oh, shit. He'd forgotten about that particular feud . . .

Rather than flinch, Tim met her gaze with equanimity. "Neither do I."

Zatanna glanced over at him, clearly wondering if they should step in. He grabbed her hand before she could ask what _that_ was all about. Explaining Queen Titania of Faerie and her penchant for human lovers was not on his to-do list for today, particularly not with Timmy-boy listening in.

(Far too many salacious details, and then he'd have to explain how he knew Titania's favorite sexual position, and as the answer did _not_ include his tupping Tim's mother—he'd stayed well away from that dangerous dame—it would be embarrassing, yet informative, for all.)

"And you," Mad Hecate said, turning away from Tim with a determined lack of interest, her eyes catching on Zatanna. "You're a lovely one. Ah, but so was your father. Giovanni was such a handsome man, kind, intelligent man, always battling the forces of evil . . . and so polite, too! Oh, more than one goddess in the pantheon was envious of your mother, let me tell you. Oh, yes, you're much better off in the parental department. Also," she whispered, leaning in close, "you have far better hair."

Zatanna blinked. "Thank you?"

Mad Hecate grinned. "And the civility is genetic! Excellent, excellent!" Her gaze travelled to him, and John belatedly realized he was still holding Zatanna's hand.

 _That won't end well, Constantine,_ she said in his head, because ancient goddesses had more tact than his usual acquaintances, it would seem.

"It never does," he murmured, and released his hold on Z's hand. To his surprise, however, she did not let go, choosing to remain as a united front against a figure she didn't fully understand. Warmth bloomed in his heart, and it made Mad Hecate's head cock to the side.

 _You know,_ she continued on psychically, with a distinctly conversational bent, _there is a popular misquotation from Homer's Iliad. He never wrote it, it came from the movie—which was an utter travesty—but it resonates because it is true. Maybe you've heard it? '_ _Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.'_

She winked at him. _Appreciate this love while you have it, duckie. Someday you'll probably regret it, but perhaps not. Who knows? Someday you might even deserve it._

He could practically feel the knell of fate ringing deep in his bones, like the toll of a great bell. "I'll keep that in mind, thank you."

Having said and psychically communicated her piece, Mad Hecate stepped back and clapped her hands together. "Right, time to go then? Let's get started. First order of business—would you all like to survive the initial descent? Or shall we kill you first, raise you after?"

Tim and Zatanna gave him panicked glances. See, now, _this_ was why he hadn't filled them in on the details.

"Let's try the not dying option," he said.

Hecate shrugged. "Your funeral. Or not, as it were. And you're aware that Lucifer absconded?"

"Ah, yes. Unfortunately," John agreed. "He was . . . slightly more coherent to deal with."

"Surprising in a key player from the Abrahamic tradition," Hecate agreed. "Anyway, word on the street is Trigon has control of the Hell Dimension. Still want to go?"

Trigon . . . that name was ringing an entirely different kind of bell. It was familiar, but John couldn't quite remember why. Maybe he'd run into him before? Or knew someone who had?

 _Oh, hell, I've probably faced him in a battle to the almost-death and barely squeaked through. Lord knows I've done_ that _enough._

"Enh, can't be too much worse than the old one," he said lightly. "Anything else? Or would you mind terribly to send us through, now?"

"Oooooooh, so _impatient,"_ she cooed. "Well, better join hands, duckies. Off we go!"

John grabbed Tim and Zatanna's hands as Mad Hecate raised hers. Power crackled off of her like a lightning rod. Tim looked away, sensitive to that sort of thing. Zatanna looked right at him, and he could see the glint of fear in her eye.

He squeezed both their hands reassuringly.

A door formed in front of them, crackling with energy, colored a lovely shade of sky blue. It was replete with lion-head door knocker, which had to have come from his and Tim's subconscious as Americans didn't go much in for those, as far as he could tell. There was no peephole or mail slot, it was in other respects a perfectly ordinary, glowing, magical _blue_ door.

"Blue? Really?" He asked. "I'd have thought red."

"Oh, get going Constantine," Hecate sniffed. "Blue's my favorite color."

"Are we sure about this?" Tim asked quietly.

"No," Zatanna muttered, _still_ fractious. Maybe he should pick up a mood improvement book on the way back, or several large toblerones.

"Yes," he said over her. "Let's go."

So they did.

…

…

…

Hell was, all things considered, extremely unpleasant. John had clearly repressed the worst of it since he'd last been here, and he could see why. It was hot, and humid, and there were dead things _everywhere_ groaning for either salvation or the lash. Really, people just didn't know if they were coming or going, and this was the perfect example.

"Oh my god," Zatanna whispered as he led her and Timmy-boy past the outermost circle of Hell. Hecate had done them a solid and gotten them past the gates. She knew better than anyone how much a stick in the mud Charon was, and he knew better than to get her started on that three-headed dog. (At least, that was what it was in her tradition. The Abrahamic one was slightly different; more fire and brimstone and angels with flaming swords, and he was well pleased to have skipped those parts, too.)

"Not sure he's terribly concerned with what's going on down here, luv," he muttered back. "Tim, remember the rules? Stick to the path, or me, rather. Let me do the talking unless it looks like I'm bollocking it all up. Both of you, keep your eyes out for anything that looks like it could slay us in a heartbeat. Or, you know, anything else that looks interesting, important, etc."

Zatanna tried to glare at him while also avoiding the teeming masses of those suffering, and those causing said suffering. It was not entirely successful. "You dragged us to Hell for the sole plan of winging it?"

He grinned at her before yanking her out of the way of a rampaging torturer, swinging a heavy axe around at a now-decapitated victim. The head slowly knit back together within a matter of minutes, and the tableau began again.

"Any better ideas?" He asked her. "My way works fine . . . most of the time."

"I hate you," she muttered, and even now it was like an icepick to his chest.

"Yes, well, keep the stiff upper lip, darling," he said, more to himself than to her.

Two huge feet plonked down in front of them, and they belonged to what appeared to be a moving tree with vaguely humanoid facial features. All three had to crane their necks to make eye contact, and every single one of them wished they hadn't.

"LORD TRIGON WISHES AN AUDIENCE WITH YOU," the tree-troll-mammoth- _thing_ announced in a voice that was louder than it need be, surely.

John smiled brightly up at him? Her? It. Please god let it be an it. "Well, then. Lead us to him, if you would?"

"CLOSE YOUR EYES," It commanded.

"We . . . would rather not," John said.

"YOUR CHOICE," It shrugged. Then it reached out its massive paw-trunk-hand and a great light swept over them. John closed his eyes just before the flash, and hoped the others did as well. When he opened them again, It was gone, but he had transported them to the throne room of Hell. On an ornate, humongous throne sat Trigon, in all his red-skinned, four-eyed, tusked, antlered, and massive glory.

Recognition dawned on John. _Oh_ that _Trigon. I'd forgotten all about him._

He was remembering quickly.

 _"JOHN CONSTANTINE,"_ Trigon intoned, and really, they all had to be deaf down down here if _that_ was the baseline volume. _"WHY HAVE YOU RETURNED TO MY REALM?"_

So they were starting with the basics, were they? How very casual of them.

"We would very much like some assistance with the Ikon invasion," John began. He was unsure of why such a beginning would make Zatanna sigh angrily, or Tim rub his forehead. "If you haven't noticed, they are not such a great thing for Earth . . . or for the Hell Dimension, in general."

Trigon chuckled, and it was not a happy sound. He gestured grandly, drawing attention to his bevy of attractive attendants, of both genders and all demon hierarchies. One in particular stood out to John. Her face was covered by a veil, but there was something in her magical aura that got his brain spinning into gear.

She was familiar—he _knew_ her. But how? Why didn't he remember her? And was that even important?

" _I SEE NO IMMEDIATE DISADVANTAGE TO THE IKON INVASION BEYOND THE NECESSITY OF EXPANSION,"_ Trigon pointed out. _"IT COULD BE SAID THE IKONS DO ME A GREAT SERVICE IN WIPING THE PLANET OF ITS PATHETIC INHABITANTS."_

John scoffed. "Sure, for _now_ it's a good plan, but what happens in a 1000 years when you're bored and there are no more humans left to toy with? We're your favorites, don't be coy. Who else manages to get into the insane amount of trouble that we do on a weekly basis?

Trigon narrowed all four of his eyes at him. _"YOU MAY HAVE A POINT. SLAVES, LEAVE US. WE NEED TO CONSIDER THE MATTER MORE DEEPLY."_

The attendants stepped away from the throne, filing out past gauzy red and purple curtains. All save the one who had caught John's attention. She snuck closer to the throne, hiding herself in the curls and whorls of the massive stone carvings. John noticed this, but cooly gave nothing away. Tim shifted and he stepped on his toe to keep him from drawing attention to her.

As soon as Trigon assumed they were alone—interesting that he couldn't sense that one attendant, and the gears in John's brain were spinning in an effort to determine why that was—he dropped some of his stuck-up veneer. " _LET US GO RIGHT TO THE NEGOTIATION, JOHN CONSTANTINE, FOR WE BOTH KNOW THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE COME. WHAT ARE THE HUMANS WORTH TO YOU? WHAT SHALL YOU OFFER FOR OUR ASSISTANCE IN DRIVING AWAY THE IKONS?"_

At the mention of humanity, the hidden attendant let out a little puff of shadow. It swathed around her like a cloud of smoke for just a moment before dissipating.

"Oh, I don't know," John said conversationally. "Why don't you tell me what you want, first?"

Trigon blinked at that, and his hidden attendant shook her head angrily, like she was disappointed in John's poor haggling skills.

 _Interesting,_ he thought. _Dissention in the ranks, perhaps? Or were some here more concerned with the fate of humanity than their king?_

Trigon looked to Zatanna and Tim. " _YOU ENTRUST THE FATE OF YOUR SPECIES TO A MAN WHO CANNOT ENTER INTO A PROPER BARGAIN?"_

" _John,"_ Zatanna said warningly. "Take this seriously!"

"Let him work," Tim said, because he was a darling boy who still believed the best in people. "He knows what he's doing."

Although John had gone through the vast majority of his life _not_ knowing what he was doing (at all), he was starting to get an idea of how to proceed. It all hinged on whether his feelings and intuition were leading him in the right direction, but they generally always did. Mostly. Eventually.

"Look, Trigon, I'd enter into a bargain with you, but you've already betrayed there is no bargain to be had," John stated. "The fact that you jumped headfirst into negotiations is proof of that. Now, if I had to guess, there's something _you_ want in particular, and you are prepared to hold out unless you get exactly that. So, in the interest of time, why don't you share with us what that is, hmmm?"

The current king of the Hell Dimension leaned forward in his throne. " _DO YOU SEEK TO TRICK ME, JOHN CONSTANTINE?"_

The repeated use of his full name was making him a little edgy, John would admit. "Oh, did you _not_ want something from me?"

Trigon bared his fangs at him. For a moment John felt very small and very vulnerable, incredibly powerful mage or no. He was a man far from home, and in a realm where no human held any power at all. That he, Tim and Zatanna had even been allowed to come here spat in the face of natural order, and the uncertainty of their situation made everything more dangerous . . . but John lived for danger, and thrived at the end of hope.

Chaos was sort of like his middle name, as long as you spelled it 'Crispin.'

" _FINE. IF THAT IS THE WAY YOU WISH TO DO THIS, I SHALL ACQUIESCE. THERE IS SOMETHING I AM WILLING TO OFFER YOU AND YOUR COMPANIONS IN ORDER TO SAVE YOUR PEOPLE AND YOUR PLANET."_

"Great!" John said, sounding not very enthusiastic at all. His eyes cut over to the hidden attendant, whose veil was shaking at the force with which she was shaking her head. "What's your offer?"

"I have a bad feeling about this," Tim muttered. "Along with all my other terrified feelings about this."

"Shh," Zatanna hushed him, looking pale but determined. God, John loved her. Holding fast to her courage in the depths of Hell? No wonder he and Nick had been hopeless around her.

Trigon spread his arms wide in a show of magnanimity. " _MY OFFER IS THIS: SHOULD YOU AGREE TO LEND YOUR BODY TO ME, I SHALL USE IT TO DRIVE THE IKONS FROM OUR PLANET. SHOULD YOUR COMPANIONS AGREE TO LEND THEIR BODIES AS WELL, I SHALL ENSURE THAT THE IKONS NEVER RETURN."_

Zatanna immediately lost her cool. " _What?"_ She hissed. "No fucking way, John!"

Timmy-boy felt no less strongly on the issue. "We can't. With our power, think of how much destruction he could cause!"

"And what would happen to _us,_ as it were?" John asked, ignoring their panicked indignation. Zatanna tugged on his arm, and had she been able to use her power against him, she no doubt would have. That he had already gained a magically-binding promise from both that they would not do so while they were in Hell was the only reason they hadn't.

Trigon smiled enigmatically. It was particularly disconcerting with his tusks. " _YOU ARE RESOURCEFUL, ARE YOU NOT? I'M SURE YOU WOULD FIGURE OUT SOMETHING."_

John held the moment, pretending to consider. The hidden attendant was now vibrating with emotion, trying to signal him with her arms not to take the deal. Her impassioned attempts to save him gave him an idea. It was probably not a good idea, but it was the only thing coming to mind, and off-the-wall ideas were the key to success, right?

Eventually?

"Nah," John said, "See, we've already wrecked half their spell, and I'm fairly sure we can pull the rest of it down on our own. Thanks for the offer, but we reeeeeallly just came to free . . . _her."_

He pointed at the attendant, who, now that she was caught out, floated over to a halfway point between Trigon and the trio of humans.

" _RAVEN?"_ Trigon clarified, furious. _"YOU CAME HERE FOR MY DAUGHTER?"_

"Raven . . ." Zatanna murmured. "Wait, why does that seem familiar?"

Raven held up her hand, stilling Trigon before he could stand. "Father, I don't understand. Why do these humans think I need saving?"

Even her voice was more human than demonic. The idea that she was important solidified. There was no way in well, Hell, that he was going to let Trigon have him, Z, or Timmy-boy, and so this was likely the next best thing.

 _Or you could piss him off by demon-napping his favorite child. Either or._

"Because you're obviously not full demon," he began with the obvious. "Or hadn't you noticed how your voice is not italicized and in all caps?"

"Don't be flippant!" Zatanna hissed at him.

"I . . ." Raven said, thinking this over. "Yes, I am aware I had a human mother, but that is of no import. I am a demon of my father's hell, and—"

"Oh _are_ you?" John asked. "No lingering human sympathy at all?"

Trigon's massive hands tightened into fists. " _MY DAUGHTER HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU, JOHN CONSTANTINE. SHE IS NOT A PART OF THIS DEAL!"_

"But why cannot we make a different deal with the humans?" Raven asked. "Father, they will never agree to this. If we truly wish to save humanity—"

"Oh darling, your father doesn't want to save humanity," John pointed out. "He just wants our power."

" _DO NOT LISTEN TO HIM, DAUGHTER. HE IS HUMAN, AND THUS NOT TO BE TRUSTED!"_

"Was my mother not the same as they?" Raven argued. "Besides, there is no guarantee your power can turn back the Ikons! It was a baseless deal from the start!"

"Oh, is that so?" John asked Raven. "Well then, want to come back with us? You could see Earth for yourself, make your own judgements on humanity."

"I believe I would," Raven said. "I have long felt stagnant here, and as if I am . . . missing something. Perhaps a chance to experience humanity for itself is exactly what I need. Besides, this is a good opportunity for us to observe the Ikons firsthand, and—"

 _"NO!"_ Trigon roared. " _I SHALL NOT PERMIT THIS!"_

"It is not your place to forbid me, Father," Raven said. "I am part human, and thus belong to both realms. If I choose to explore the homeland of my mother—"

 _"RAVEN, THIS IS NOT MY WILL. YOU WILL NOT OFFER YOURSELF AS PART OF THIS DEAL!"_

 _"_ She can if she wants to," John pointed out. "Maybe she wants to go home."

Raven's veiled face turned to him. "Home? Could I truly consider the human realm _home?"_

"You did say you were missing something," Zatanna pointed out. "Maybe it's some connection to your mother?"

"You . . ." Raven murmured. "Your soul is. . . familiar to me . . ."

John was sure that something was wrong here. His blood was buzzing, for lack of a better descriptor, and he felt as if he were on the cusp of something important. This Raven was familiar all around, and if they were the same to her, maybe they'd met before?

But why did no one remember it? Was it the veil that hid her face, perhaps?

Trigon stood, pointing at the humans. " _I RESCIND MY OFFER! OUR NEGOTIATION IS OVER AN_ D _I COMMAND YOU TO LEAVE! THIS IS MY REALM; MY DAUGHTER. YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE! "_

Raven floated in front of them, throwing her arms out in a protective gesture. "Then I ask them here as _my_ guests, and by the rules of our charter, they may remain until I decide otherwise!"

" _WHY DO YOU ARGUE WITH ME, DAUGHTER? HAVE I NOT GIVEN YOU DOMINION OVER ALL THE LESSER HELLS? POWER OVER ALL OTHER DEMONS? I GRANT YOU POWER BEYOND YOUR STATUS. YOU ARE THE PREMIER DEMONESS IN HELL, HOW COULD YOU DESIRE MORE THAN THIS?"_

"I am _done_ with men telling women what they should want," Zatanna seethed. "Especially when they are _full of shit."_

Raven's head turned towards Zatanna. "Yes, you are very familiar," she murmured. "I _like_ you, but I do not know you. How can this be?"

 _Memory manipulation,_ John realized. _Oh, bollocks. Trigon's gone and done it this time . . ._

"You know, you needn't stay here if you don't wish," Tim offered kindly. "Even Lady Death of the Endless said that no one stays anywhere forever."

Trigon roared. Furious that no one was heeding his command—or the sheer threat of his presence—he sent a great blast of demonic power at them. John raised his shields as fast he could, around all three of them, but Raven crossed her arms in a defensive posture and took the brunt of her father's attack. His power sizzled out shortly, and Raven remained defiant.

"I will be leaving with the humans, Father," she said. "There is nothing you can do to stop us."

"Oh, I rather think there is," John muttered. "Particularly as Hecate has not made a door for us yet."

" _NO INFERIOR DEITY CAN INTRUDE UPON MY REALM WITHOUT MY ALLOWANCE,"_ Trigon laughed, mollified now that he was in control of the situation. " _I ALLOWED YOU TO ENTER HELL, YET I SHALL NEVER ALLOW YOU TO LEAVE!"_

Raven floated towards them, her feet nearly touching the ground. "On my mark," she whispered. "Stay close to me, or you'll get lost in the stream."

"Oh dear," John replied, but he dutifully grabbed onto Z and Timmy-boy anyway.

"John, what—"

"Wait, is she going to . . .?"

"Have faith in our new demon friend," he whispered. "Our options are limited."

"Goodbye, Father," Raven said, summoning a great sphere of demon power with a single fingertip. Such control was not like other demons' use of their power, and that too was familiar. By Zatanna's quick intake of breath, he thought it might be so for her, as well.

She launched the power at the throne before launching herself at the trio of humans. She reached for them with one arm while outstretching the other, and sent another stab of power towards an odd looking relic propped against a decorative marble stand. It was an old, Grecian urn, and John had the time to think _maybe Hecate's not so powerless here after all_ before the power slammed into the urn, sending a great explosion of light in all directions.

They headed into the heart of it, and then they were gone.

…

…

...

They landed in a jumble, tripping over themselves and falling to the hard concrete. By luck or design Raven had managed to bring them back exactly where they started, and John missed the goat by mere inches. Blood soaked his trenchcoat and for a moment he was most seriously displeased about this. Blood was _so damned difficult_ to get out of things, even with magic.

Then, all at once, they remembered.

"Raven!" Zatanna screeched, and had she not been on the other side of the goat, would have thrown her arms around the demoness. "It's you! Oh god, how did I not _remember_ you?"

Raven, also known as Rachel Roth, daughter of Arella Roth and Trigon, a longtime member of the Teen Titans and, despite her demonic parentage, one of Earth's greatest heroes, threw back her head and let out an enraged scream. The air trembled with power and Tim threw up his arms, but as quickly as she succumbed to the anger, she reigned herself back in.

"I must apologize," she said, ducking her head. "I lost control of my emotions. It will not happen again, I assure you."

"No harm done," John said. "We're just glad to have you back." He remembered her now as well, although he'd not been as close to her as Zatanna had been. After a rocky start in which she'd barred Raven from the Justice League, the girl had gone on to impress Zatanna with her power, empathy, as well as her determination and drive to the right thing. They had, as far as John knew, become friends over the last few years. It must be twice as disconcerting to realize you'd completely forgotten someone you cared about, let alone worked with. Relied upon, even.

"So, we know you?" Tim asked. He had not known her, apparently, as nothing had changed. Not surprising. Even though they were the same age, they'd grown up on either sides of the pond. "You're a force of good?"

"I strive always to be," Raven answered seriously. "I will not give into my demon heritage, nor will I forget humanity ever again!"

"It wasn't just us, then?" Zatanna clarified, as she hugged her friend. "Because it was like all knowledge of you was wiped from my brain!"

"It was," Raven replied grimly. "Trigon made us all forget, but his ability to do so was contingent upon my choosing to stay in Hell. Because I left freely, we all remember."

"But you did remember each other a little," Tim pointed out. "I mean I didn't know her so it wasn't strange, but you two were obviously reacting to her."

"It was how we felt about each other," Raven agreed. "Our soul-selves cannot ever forget _that._ Even if there is no context, we cannot forget our feelings. As soon as I saw you I knew you were important, and I could not let Trigon destroy you. That, along with my inherent desire to protect humanity allowed me to choose outside his sphere of influence."

Tim smiled, obviously a fan of people making their own choices, but they were on a deadline.

"I hate to be a downer at your welcome home party, but is Trigon going to simply let us stroll out of Hell?" John asked. "Or are we fighting a war on two fronts, now?" He winced when Zatanna turned to him, eyes wide and recriminatory. Sue him for not thinking out all the details before they went through with this. At least he was thinking of them now.

"No, he cannot come to Earth at the moment," Raven said slowly, thinking it over. "He was careful not to show you, but the Hell Dimension is currently embroiled in a war of its own. Many wish to rule over the home of the damned, and control its power. Yet even if he could come after us, he would not. All our oracles and soothsayers have been specific. If humanity loses this war against the Ikons, they shall become a force powerful enough to take on Trigon and win. Take over the entire universe, and all attending dimensions, even. Theirs will be a rule that lasts for multiple millennia, resulting in the destruction of countless worlds and lives . . . and the only way to stop it is to defeat them now."

"Oh, bloody hell," Tim whispered, which John found fairly appropriate. "It really is up to us, then."

"Indeed," Raven agreed. She turned to John. "I assume you have a plan, Constantine?"

He tilted his head back and forth, signifying that he didn't _not_ have a plan. "Well, we've taken out almost half their spell house, as it were, but we still have to either generate enough power to take down the rest, which is hard when our magics are all affected _by_ the spell, or we could—"

"Attack it from a place it holds no power over," Raven supplied. "I can help with that. I can feel the faded remnants of the spell, and as long as you assist with additional power and an appropriate ritual, I believe we can end their spell once and for all."

"Leaving our friends in position to finally defeat the Ikons," Zatanna noted. "I like it. Yes."

So did John. "Let's do this," he said with a grin. He extended her hand for her to shake.

After a moment, Raven reached out and took it.

...

...

...

 **July 3rd, 20xx**

 **Outlaw Safehouse, Gotham, 8:14 AM**

 **Day 13**

Jason's life had been in a strange, unenviable holding pattern since Dick had been captured, but the phone call that woke him on the morning of day 13 of the Ikon infiltration changed this. He rolled over on the ratty mattress and propped himself up on one forearm while he scrabbled for the phone with the other. Only two people besides Barbara had the number to this particular phone, and as the Ikonic spies had never had any access to this number, he hoped it really was them. He had time to wish he'd remembered to remove his shoes before falling asleep last night as he brought the phone to his ear.

"'Lo?" He croaked. Man, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck. He hadn't even gotten into trouble yesterday—just laid low and worked on some poisons, sketched some designs for a new hand grenade.

A familiar female voice, speaking a foreign, yet also familiar language. " _Jason? It's me, Kori,"_ she said in her native language. " _Is this line safe?"_

Hope flushed through him before he remembered the Ikon's capability. "It is if you're not one of them, princess," he said. "Convince me."

"I can't," she said in English. "I cannot leave my place of safety, Roy's life depends on it. But neither will I put you in danger. I am only calling to let you know that Roy is still alive, and I am doing all I can to keep him safe."

As long as information was not travelling along a two-way street here, Jason was fine with getting more of it. He'd planned on bailing on this safe house today anyway. So as long as he moved quickly, he'd clear out before the Ikons had him.

If this was a trap, that was, and not the real Koriand'r.

"You've got him?" He clarified, hoping like hell this was true. "How did you find him?"

"The same way I am keeping him alive," Kori responded. "I had not made him aware of this, thinking that it was not a possibility with someone who was not of my species, but just before the Ikons attacked I became aware that I had accidentally created a . . . well, I suppose you could call it a 'wedding bond' with him. It is a psychic syncing of one individual to another among my people, much like a wedding would be to you, save for the fact that our life-forces are now connected, and that through that bond I can not only sense his location, but I can heal him more quickly, and preserve him from dying outright."

"You're fixing him up, huh?" Jason asked, gladdened. He tried to remind himself that this was likely an Ikon trick, but in his heart he felt it was not. "Thank fucking god, we needed good news. How long will it take? When will you guys be back?"

Kori was hesitant. "Jason, I found him at the brink of death. It will take a long time to heal him to a point of stability, and if I break the bond, he will die."

"So you're saying you _can't_ come back?"

"Not until he stabilizes. I . . . I have to think of our child, as well. I was lucky that I did nothing to endanger it in rescuing him from that facility out in South Dakota, but even now I am taking a terrible risk."

Jason rolled up from the bed so he could pace his apartment, getting his things together without being too obvious. He was still largely convinced this was the real Kori, but in case this was an Ikon trap he needed to be ready to move. "So this puts the baby in danger? Princess, that puts _you_ in danger."

Kori's reply was quiet. "Yes. If I give too much of myself to Roy, the baby will die. In that case _I_ will die. I am walking a fine line here, Jason. I cannot rush this, or I will lose everything."

"How did you 'accidentally' do this?" He asked, suspicious. This was not something she had ever talked about before.

She sighed. "Because I had no idea it could be done with a human. It generally requires effort and will from both partners. In this case, I wanted to be joined to Roy fully, for all time, with no reservations. I can only assume he wanted the same, and that my half of the link was enough to make it so." She hesitated. "I cannot stress enough the level of complete devotion needed for this link. This was never a possibility in my relationship with Richard Grayson. It was one of the reasons I could not marry him, all those years ago."

"Kori, does Roy know anything about Dick?" He asked, desperate. Kori knew of his feelings for him, knew all about them. More so, she understood the devastation of losing him. If this really was her she wouldn't begrudge him caring more about him than one of his closest friends.

"Roy has not achieved consciousness. _When_ he does, I will let you know all I can as soon as I can. Richard was not in the facility I destroyed, however. Roy was the only survivor, and I did not recognize the other deceased captives. There were not a part of the supercommunity, as far as I could tell."

That was both a comfort and a cudgel to his heart. Good as it was to hear that Dick had not died for certain, it was still nothing productive for him to work on.

But he had been here too long. "Thanks, Princess. Don't take this the wrong way, but I gotta wrap this call up."

"You're moving locations in case I am an Ikonic trap," she said, sounding approving. "Yes, do all you need to stay safe. I will contact you again when I have news. Other than that, please pass on my apologies to the League. As soon as I can I will return and fight at your side."

"Take care of the baby," he reminded her. With a ghost of his former humor he continued, "And I don't mean Roy."

" _My love to you, my brother,"_ she said in her native language before hanging up.

"And mine to you," he muttered. "Time to go."

...

...

...

 **July 3rd, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Clocktower, 3:19 PM**

 **Day 13**

Barbara Gordon sat at her supercomputer, with multiple screens arrayed around her. Hal had once called her a manipulative spider, and she was seeing the accuracy of that statement now. At her fingertips were the threads that webbed together their plan to unmask the Ikons in the United States Government, and she was the spider sitting in the center of the web, spinning the plan to victorious fruition . . . or toppling to the ground. All it took was one slight miscalculation, one crossed thread, and that would be the case.

Barbara smiled grimly. She was not going to miscalculate. Not now, and not over this. She had calculated everything extensively, and every single member of the plan knew their role, and no one else's. There would be no more betrayal at this stage. Everyone was in position, and it was time for her to direct them.

Her hand raised, and with a single keystroke, she put the plan into motion.

...

...

...

 **July 4th, 20xx**

 **World News Broadcast, 10:00 AM**

 **Day 14**

Caleb Isaacs, lead anchor for CNN's morning news segment, shuffled the papers in front of him and cleared his throat. He was nervous, and felt that he had good call to be. His report was controversial at best, illegal at worst. It was why the studio had arranged for a private plane to ferry the entire team to London after the broadcast, in order to escape any potential reaction from their own government.

Caleb, whose mother was Canadian, thought longingly of her homeland before beginning.

"Incredible excitement on the world wide web last night when a leaked broadcast from the ex-superhero 'Oracle,' has made us question the validity of the sentence passed against Patrick O'Brien, formally known as Plastic Man. I say 'formally,' because unlike what President Luthor and his cabinet have told us, the recording released reveals he is deceased, rather than in hiding.

"Here is a clip from the recording. Viewers, please be aware that this clip contains violent imagery, and may not be suitable for children."

The moments leading up to Patrick's demise rolled, given to this news agency and many others by Oracle. It was all there—Patrick's desperate attempt at escape, being shot with an alien weapon, and what was unmistakably Javier Bané, a member of President Luthor's cabinet, dousing him with a foreign— _alien—_ substance.

"This conflicts with the President's official statement considerably," Isaacs continued. "He claims this is an elaborate superhero cover up, but it would appear that rather than an assassination attempt on the life of Bané, Plastic Man was after information. He infiltrated an abandoned warehouse seeking answers to what happened in Metropolis." Isaacs swallowed. "He found them."

Another clip from the recording was played, where Plastic Man's hand held up the unnamed technician's itinerary. The studio froze the image so that the last few days were easily read.

 _June 24th—Call Aunt Susan, tell her to get out of Metropolis. Do not call Sandra, the two-timing slut._

 _June 25th—List of next wave strike locations posted. Hoping for Europe, or Latin America. Fuck the States. I want to destroy some culture._

 _June 26th—Planned evacuation. All personnel to research lab. Boss said there might be a party. Better be, because Des Plaines is ass-end of nowhere. Hate Illinois. Hate the entire Midwest._

 _June 27th—Day off. Call Jeremiah. Make excuse for why he has to leave Chicago. Not as gullible—_

"The dates are telling. Only one day before Metropolis was destroyed, a worker in this facility knew to warn his loved ones out of the city. This also explains why the superhero community was so desperate to evacuate Chicago. With this information, it seemed that their enemy, the Iconoclasts, had chosen their next target. In this light, we have to question why it was that Chicago was spared. Was it as our President tells us, and that evacuating Chicago was a carefully calculated move on the part of the supers to destabilize our nation? Or were their desperate efforts enough to dissuade the Iconoclasts from wreaking the same destruction on Chicago as they did Metropolis?"

Caleb Isaacs put his hand to her earpiece. "And I'm getting word from the studio that we have been ordered by President Luthor himself to end this broadcast, and get off the air." He put his shaking hand down on the desk.

"Thank you for listening, America. Good luck, and I hope we may—"

The transmission ended abruptly.

...

...

...

 **July 4th, 20xx**

 **World News Broadcast, 1:00 PM**

 **Day 14**

Three hours following the abrupt ending of CNN's shattering broadcast, NBC had one of its own. In a rare move, they chose to designate an outside anchor—albeit an infamous, well-lauded one—to interview a superhero who had survived several hours of captivity in an Iconoclast stronghold. The interview took place, as far as the watcher could tell, in a state of the art medical center. Only a few individuals would be able to determine that it was taking place in the Watchtower, and was being streamed back down to Earth by Lois Lane's most trusted recording associates, all supervised by Oracle.

The excerpts aired ran as followed.

Lois Lane, world-class reporter and widely known as Superman's long-time girlfriend, leaned in close to the young man lying on the hospital bed. The camera panned over her before moving to the injured man, slowly moving from the foot of the bed to the head. Everything was arranged to highlight his incredible injuries: from the cast on his left foot which hid the two missing toes, to the one on his right hand, to the tips of the y-scar so familiar in autopsies, and the massive bruising on his face, arms, and chest. The camera lingered longest on his face—the bags under his tired blue eyes, and the still-healing holes in his lips, which glistened with a potent healing ointment.

Lois put her hand on the young man's uninjured leg, in a comforting, almost maternal gesture. "Tim, I want to start off by thanking you for agreeing to this interview. I know it must be hard to talk about what happened, but anything you can share with us will help us to understand, and move forward in this difficult time."

Tim nodded. There was no trace of the young man who had, upon learning he would give a world-wide broadcast about his torture, had thrown a small hissy fit that only Kon-El, through his patience, empathy, and emotional manipulation was able to resolve.

( _You said you need something to do, dude!_

 _Yeah, but not_ this!

 _This is the most important thing you_ can _do, Tim. Come on. Be a hero. For me? Please?_

 _No, I can't—I can't do this! My identity is shot and everyone will know my face! They'll see me weak!_

 _Tim, unless you do this interview, I'm going to start crying and will not stop until you agree to do it._

 _No, you won't._

 _Watch me._

 _. . . Oh god, you're really doing it. Goddamnit. Kon, stop cry—K—Kon! Stop! Ugh. Oh god. Fine._ Fine! _I'll do the damn interview!)_

"Thank you for listening to me," he said instead, in a calm, rational voice that was utterly at odds with his terrible physical condition.

"Can you start off with telling us who you are?"

He nodded. "My name is Timothy Drake. I'm 19 years old, originally from Gotham, and I just finished my junior year at Harvard."

"And your history fighting crime?"

"I started when I was 13, after getting lucky and deducing Batman's secret identity. After the death of his previous sidekick, I convinced Batman to take me on as Robin. I continued in that role until I was about 16, and then I created the persona Red Robin and joined the Teen Titans."

"But you still had ties to Batman and Gotham City, correct?"

"Of course," Tim said. "It's not like I walked away from Batman and his way of life. It's more like I carried over those tenants into the Teen Titans."

"Of which you were co-leader, along with Superboy," Lois noted, her expression and tone giving nothing away that could hint to Kon-El's fate. Whether he was living, dead, or missing was not known to the American public, and they wanted to keep it that way until the moment was right.

"Yes," Tim said, equally circumspect.

"What tenants would you say you brought to the Titans?"

"To protect innocents. To preserve our way of life. To battle evil."

"What would you describe Batman's driving philosophy as? How would you describe him to someone who had never heard of him?"

Tim smiled weakly. "Well, besides the obvious—a man who ran around, armed to the teeth and dressed like a bat—his mission was to protect civilians from the villains who through supernatural ability, personal power, intelligence, money, luck, or connections, rose above the reach of the Gotham City Police Department. As his Robins, we were to uphold justice, no matter what dangers we faced. That was what it meant to fight crime at his side."

Lois nodded. "Thank you, Tim. I'm going to get a little more personal. Can you tell me how it was that you were captured by the Iconoclasts?"

Tim dipped his head in a jerky nod. "Yes. I was contacted by what we believed to be our inside man in the U.S. Government, John Stewart. By making me believe my friends and colleagues were in danger, he led me into a trap, and I was captured by the Iconoclasts."

"Who were the individuals used as bait?"

Tim swallowed. "Arsenal and Nightwing."

"And _were_ they captured?"

Tim closed his eyes. "Yes, but they were not held with me. The lack of Ikon demands for ransom leads us to believe they were killed. If their treatment was anything like mine . . ." He trailed off, his mild voice full of pain. " . . . their last moments were of fear and agony."

Lois reached out and squeezed his leg again. It was a gamble to pronounce Dick and Roy dead, but there was little they could do. Were either to be found dead after this interview, it would be a point for superhero credibility, and if it nudged the Ikons into keeping them alive, then there was still hope.

"I won't ask what they did to you—that is self-evident. But Tim, is there anything specific you'd like to say?"

Tim blinked at her, making a show of gathering his thoughts. This last response had been drafted and finalized a day ago, the challenge was in making it seem unscripted.

"It's not about what happened to me," he began. "It's not my own pain, my own fear, my own . . . messed up face and body. I want them to answer for what they've done. I want them to look me in the eye and tell me why they felt the need to come to my planet and target my people, my _family_ , and think they could ever get away with it."

Lois kept carefully still, not allowing her body to reveal her anxiety. Here was the moment, and Tim was about to drop the bomb that would blow this thing wide open. She had to set it up perfectly.

"In terms of retaliation, does your former mentor blame the U.S. Government for allowing the Iconoclasts to attack the superhero community?"

"My former mentor?" Tim sputtered, making an excellent show of weakened disbelief. "Are you talking about Batman?"

Lois frowned, confused. "Yes, of course. I'm sure he can't be happy about how the government has handled this."

Tim shook his head, looking betrayed. "Miss Lane, Batman doesn't feel anything at all right now."

Lois narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

Tim exhaled shakily, his large eyes full of pain. "You were speaking in past tense so I thought you knew. Bruce Wayne has been dead for over a week," he whispered. "The Ikons killed him."

...

...

...

 **July 4th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, Clocktower, 11:57 PM**

 **Day 14**

The audio transcripts of Batman, Black Canary, and the Huntress were strategically leaked to all news agencies in the U.S.A., as well as other major new sources worldwide by 5:00 PM. Barbara estimated that by the 9 AM news the next morning the entire world would know how Bruce Wayne, Dinah Lance, and Helena Bertinelli died at the hands of 'Ray Ghulia.' His voice was distinctive, and he'd made enough public speeches at Luthor's request that even the most unaware observer could not fail to make the connection.

It would also become clear that Luthor had essentially funded the destruction of his beloved city with weapons that the illustrious Batman could not find the start button to. This, along with Ra's al Ghul's assertion that they were using Ikon technology, would be enough to not only damn the new president of the United States, but to link him with the alien invaders as well.

Following on the heels of Tim's dramatic reveal and the truth of Plastic Man's demise, the information would prove to be the tipping point, or at least they so hoped it would be. It would all come to a head the next morning, and there was only one character left standing in the wings; only domino left to place before the whole thing toppled over.

Barbara glanced over at the clock as it turned midnight. "Happy Fifth of July," she muttered. She thought there was some justice in enacting the final part of their plan to unmask the Ikons in the government the day after Independence Day, but instead of Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum they had Superboy.

She supposed that would have to be enough.

...

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Washington D.C, 11:00 AM**

 **Day 15**

The culmination of the supers' counterattack took place on the White House lawn, as had the protest just a few days prior. The nation had been whipped into a frenzy with the deaths of Plastic Man, Black Canary, and Huntress, along with the publicized executions of Carol Ferris, Blue Beetle, and Booster Gold. Red Robin's torture, Nightwing and Arsenal's capture fanned the flames, but Batman's passing was the final straw. Rallies were scheduled in every state, every capitol. Billboards were posted with SUPPORT OUR HEROES messages. Polls were taken that reflected overwhelming superhero support. Petitions were signed by millions of names.

America had united in direct opposition to President Luthor and his regime.

All this took place by the wee hours of the morning of the fifth of July. By 11:00 AM, Kon-El Kent was in place, hovering hundreds of feet above the iconic building. Within he could make out 'Luthor's' voice, along with 'Ra's al Ghul's,' and 'John Stewart's'. Perhaps the false Bane was also within, meditating quietly as his namesake was wont to do.

Perhaps the fake Shayera was, as well.

"You ready?" Tim's voice crackled in his ear. The earpiece was cold and plastic and weird, but for safety's sake they figured it was best to have a direct line to him. He had insisted on the voice in his ear being Tim, if only to stave off some of his anger at having had to do a public interview.

"Hell yeah," Kon said. "You all in place?"

"Go," Tim ordered, and it was his Red Robin voice. Kon reacted accordingly.

He turned to the White House, where there were dozens of secret service members milling about on the lawn. Many were pointing up at him and one enterprising soul finally procured a megaphone.

"Superboy, you are under arrest! Do not resist! Come down peacefully, and no further action shall be taken against you!"

Kon shook his head. "Aw come on, guys," he called back, magnifying his voice through his impressive lung power. _Supervoice,_ Cassie had called it once. _Just don't use it on me in bed, ok?_ "Can't a guy come home and see his dad?" He finished, shaking off any memories of Cassie. "I'm not here to beg for money, I swear."

"Superboy, this is your last warning—"

"Send out the guy who supplied half of my DNA, and—"

The gun shot rang out, but Kon had already caught the bullet by the time the sound reached him. He held it daintily between his thumb and forefinger, and gave the men below a _really now?_ expression.

"We'll do this the hard way, then," Kon said. He cleared his throat before beginning, repeating what Tim murmured through his earpiece. "Alexander Luthor, I hereby accuse you of crimes against humanity, including but not limited to: stalking, securities fraud, criminal contempt of court, perjury, identity theft, fraud, forgery, four counts of aggravated assault, eight counts of first-degree murder, five counts of kidnapping, hate crimes, conspiracy, and—"

"Superboy, stand down!"

That was a new, if familiar, voice. 'Luthor' had come out sometime during his accusation, and, waving away the secret service members who sought to protect him, had taken the megaphone.

"By whose authority do you accuse _me?"_ He asked, with all of the true Luthor's arrogance. "You, who are breaking the laws of the country simply by being here?"

"The American people," Kon replied. "They've opened their eyes, 'Mr. President,' and they don't like what they see. They won't swallow your lies wholesale, anymore."

"What lies?" Luthor challenged him, gesturing for his protective service to disperse on the lawn. "I am merely the instrument of their will."

Kon grit his teeth. "So you deny all the accusations laid against you?"

"I do." It was asserted calmly, clearly, and it enraged Kon to the point where he ignored the faint, yet indicative, _tick, tick, tick,_ at the edge of his hearing.

"Then we'll do it this way," Kon said. "While the funding of the weapon that _destroyed Metropolis_ is still on your head, you worthless bastard, I put to you the question of your being an alien shapeshifter. If you can publically provide DNA that proves you are human, and more so, the same individual that supplied half of my genetic DNA, then may my accusations be false and the whole world know who to trust. Can you do that, _Mr. President_?"

Louder now, and it pressed in on Kon's awareness. _Tick, tick, tick._

"I absolutely and utterly refuse to do any such thing," Luthor said, and it was the death knell of the public's belief in him and his administration. "Superboy, you have resisted arrest long enough, and—"

 _Tick, tick, tick._

"Your magic pulse is half destroyed and Superman is coming home," Kon argued, straining to place the location of the ticking noise. Bomb, definitely, but where? "The entire Green Lantern Corps supports him. Do you think he will stand for this?"

Luthor grinned, and Kon's eyesight enabled him to make out every individual tooth. "It doesn't matter," he said, speaking normally without the megaphone, but somehow his voice was loud and distinct enough for Kon to hear every word. "You're _too late."_

 _TICK TICK—_

The White House exploded with all the suddenness and enormity of a nuclear bomb.

…

…

…

…

 _..._

 **OH NO.**

 **I would like to make it known that my mother says holey moley a lot. My mother may also be Shazam, who knows.**

 **I would also like it to be known that the only reason I know that Supergirl had kind of a relationship with her magical freaking horse was because of superdickery . com. The new layout of that site is largely unsatisfying, but oh my god it is among the best things on the internet. Go there now, friends. Go there and rejoice.**

 **I think I straight up made up Koriand'r having magical powers in this chapter. Oh well.**

 **Tim Hunter is maybe not the best known DCU character in this fic. Gist is: he is inordinately powerful magical teenager (and looks a bit like Harry Potter). He has interacted with Constantine before, and in so doing briefly met Zatanna. Has had other adventures, but has travelled to Faerie, where the Queen (Titania) gave him a hard time. He is her son, born of a human father, and in a rare redeeming moment she gave him up to be raised as human.**

 **Tim has issues with lots of this, but he's generally pretty adorable.**

 **And look who finally arrived at the party. You all thought I forgot about her, didn't you . . . :) Hell no, Raven is awesome, and is a lady who gets her shit done. Love it.**

 **(And to anyone who caught Tim's moment of mental stumbling when going through the list of Teen Titans in chapter 1 . . . well done!)**


	12. Ch 11 - Heroes

**150,000 words in, we have the last chapter of Arc 1. Good lord I need a nap.**

 **I realize I have been falling down a bit on the job when it comes to posting, and I will admit it is a mix of real life business growth and also losing the momentum for this story. Arc 3 (Atlantis) is particularly difficult, largely as it stands outside the main storyline, and also bc I know jack all about DC Atlantis.**

 **But I'm working on it, guys. I'm getting there.**

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Heroes**

* * *

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Green Arrow safe house, Detroit, 10:18 AM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

 **...**

"Hal, all I'm saying is that the White House exploding is the mic drop of all mic drops. Can we at least agree on _that?_ "

Billy Batson glanced up from the phone in his hand to where Mr. Oliver was talking on his own. The archer had been arguing with Green Lantern for the last five minutes on whether or not the few news agencies that held that Superboy had blown up the White House, rather than President Luthor, were utter ignoramuses (ignorami?) and therefore were not worthy of saving. That the whole interaction—including Luthor's obviously evil end dialogue— had been televised via drones and then broadcasted through the Watchtower helped prove Mr. Oliver's point, but Billy was fairly sure that Green Lantern was one of those people who liked to argue for the sake of doing it.

"No, I don't!" Mr. Oliver said. "And don't you—no, do not give the phone to Barry. Hal. _Hal!_ "

Mr. Oliver put his hand over the phone, glancing over at him. "Billy, am I right?"

"Uh, I guess?" he began, before the call connected, and his foster father's voice came through the line, tinny and nervous.

"Vasquez residence, Victor speaking."

"Uh hi. Mr. Vasquez? It's um. Me. Billy." Billy was not really nervous about the security of the line—Oracle had been thorough, as always—as he was about whether or not Victor and Rosa Vasquez, along with their foster family would hang up the phone, wanting nothing to do with the man who had killed more than 50,000 people in what seemed like cold blood.

"Billy!" He shouted. "Rosa! Get the kids, Billy's on the line!"

" _He's safe?"_ Came her tinny response, which would not have been picked up by someone with normal, unaugmented hearing. " _Oh thank god!"_

"What about Superboy?" He heard Darla ask in the background. He must be on speakerphone, now, as she was coming through clearly. "Is he ok too?" She had a huge crush on him, as did the majority of 16-year-old girls across the country. It helped that he was so damn _nice,_ and aesthetically good looking.

Billy was never, ever going to tell her about how he'd had to beat the crap out of him, just a few days ago.

"Oh yeah," Billy said, remembering how singed he'd looked when he and Mr. Oliver had skyped the Watchtower. He felt relieved that he'd been able to get Superboy back to full power, because otherwise the answer might have been way different. "Believe me, it takes way worse than that to take him out."

"Billy?" Mary said, worriedly.

"Hey man, you doin' all right?" Freddy was right behind her. Both sounded breathless, like they'd run to get to the phone.

"Doing ok, Mom and Dad," he quietly teased his closest siblings. Mary and Freddy had _finally_ begun dating only a few months back, but everyone—even Victor and Rosa, who raised them as siblings—joked that they were like an old married couple already. "Hey, how are your other kids doing?" Billy continued. "I think their names were Eugene? Pedro?"

"Oh, our boy Pedro's at work," Freddy said, taking Billy's sass seriously. "We'll fill him in when he gets back."

"Very funny, Mr. Batson," Mary said dryly. "What the hell is going on out there? Why did the White House blow up?"

"Is Batman really dead?" Eugene asked, his calm voice sad.

Billy sighed. "Bruce Wayne is dead, yes, but Batman is not," he said, sticking to what they'd all agreed to if they were they put in a position to answer honestly. He hadn't exactly gotten clearance to tell his family, but as they'd kept his secret for seven long years, and were at risk even now, he thought he could give them that much. "As long as there is a Gotham, there will be a Batman."

"Doesn't answer the question about the White House," Freddy noted.

"Superboy did _not_ blow it up!" Darla shrieked in defense of her hero-crush.

"Of course he didn't," Billy agreed. "The Ikon wearing Lex Luthor's face did, because he knew it wouldn't kill _him_ , and it might hurt Superboy."

"And what about you?" Rosa asked, her voice warm with concern. "How are you doing, honey?"

Billy couldn't answer for a moment. How could he tell them if they somehow didn't know? He looked over at Mr. Oliver, who was pacing and gesticulating wildly. At one point, he held the phone to his ear and mimicked shooting an arrow. He'd never have a chance to tell Dinah—and possibly Roy—anything again. His loved ones were gone, and Billy had the chance to connect with his.

"I'm ok," he said, his voice breaking. "I mean, not ok, but I'm better physically, at least. I um. I have to apologize. They um, the Ikons took control of me for a little while, through what, uh, well, the magic that gives me my powers. It took me a long time to fight them off, and I—I'm sorry for what I did. All those _people._ I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough at the beginning. Jesus, I'm sorry!" He grit his teeth as tears rolled down his cheeks. His throat was tight with the effort of not breaking down and sobbing.

"I, um, I understand if you don't want anything to do with me now. I deserve a lot worse than that, and—"

"That really _was_ you?" Mary whispered. "We thought—we thought that was anti-Super propaganda."

"No," he admitted miserably, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I did that. It's all my fault."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and Billy was so wretched that he gave serious thought to hanging up the phone. All the hope from their warm reception to his call was gone, now. They'd never forgive him, and—

"That was _not you,"_ Darla said, in the insistent way of teenage girls. "It is _not your fault."_

He tried again, "Darla, you don't understand—"

"No, Billy," Eugene said. "It is you who does not understand. We know you, and this is not the kind of man you are."

"You don't get it!" Billy yelled, losing his temper. "They had control of me! I was their fuc— freaking puppet! I killed _all those people!"_

"Nice save with the f-bomb, kiddo," Mr. Oliver called out, apparently listening to his conversation and more concerned with whether he was swearing than if he was having a breakdown.

"Hey man, keep it cool. We're still with you, yeah?" Freddy tried to smooth things over, as was his way. "I mean, I still believe in you."

"You shouldn't," Billy ground out. "You should blame me. You should hate me!"

"You can't tell me what to do!" Darla yelled, getting a little excited.

"Kids, please," Victor tried to settle them. His voice was grave as he continued, "Billy, we want you to know that whatever happens out there, we still support you. Whether or not you forgive yourself, we already have. Right, everyone?"

Darla, Eugene, and Freddy all agreed immediately, and Rosa did a moment later. Mary was silent for a long moment before admitting, "I don't know yet. I'm sorry, Billy. I need some time to think it over."

"Hey, babe," Freddy murmured, just loudly enough to be picked up. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not gonna lie to him," she said. "And I understand he didn't _want_ to do all that, but all those people . . . I can't just forget about it. I can't just let it _go."_

Billy opened his mouth to agree, but Rosa beat him to it. "Neither can he, honey. You know him well enough to know that. When all this is over we can address what he was forced to do—you can go to therapy along with him if you want to—but for now, he needs our support."

"You can't make her give it," Billy said, somehow feeling better now that at least one person was taking him to task for his sins. "She's right. I prefer honesty."

He wasn't going to touch the therapy issue with a ten-foot pole. The only therapists he could see were in the supercommunity, and as that pretty much boiled down to Dinah Lance in her unofficial capacity of super counsellor, his options were currently nonexistent.

"Well then you should probably know Pedro isn't actually working," Freddy said a moment later. Billy could hear the wince in his voice. "He's upstairs in his room. He's uh, not sure of how to deal with all this."

"Yeah, I get that," Billy said. He closed his eyes. He hadn't expected anyone to stand with him, let alone the majority of his foster family. That Mary and Pedro had their reservations didn't hurt his feelings, they only hammered home how much he had to do to make up for what he'd already done.

"But I gotta go," he said, cutting it short before they realized he'd been crying for most of the call. "Stay safe, ok? I'll uh, call again when I can. I'm sorry. I really—I'm sorry."

"We love you, honey," Rosa said, with Victor chiming in a moment later. Eugene rumbled his agreement.

"Yeah, we totally do," Darla said. "Now go kick some ass and tell Superboy he has to have a date with me when this is all over."

"Don't do that," Freddy said. "One super in the family is enough. Just take those bullies down, yeah, Billy?" He knew how much Billy hated bullies. It was one of the things that had brought them all together, back when he had first joined the Vasquez family.

"You got it," he said. "I love you guys."

"Don't lose," Mary murmured, just before Billy hung up.

"What do you _mean_ it's ambiguous? Barry, don't tell me you're on _his_ side!"

Billy snorted. Hard as it was to contact his family, at least he had Mr. Oliver to come back to. He was completely ridiculous, of course, and made very little sense to him most of the time, but something about his outlook brightened Billy's own. Maybe it was because they'd both stared into the abyss together, and he'd pulled them both back. Maybe it was just something inherent to him, along with his ridiculousness.

Either way, Billy was glad he had it, now.

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Clocktower, Gotham, 2:14 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

After waiting for more than 24 hours after the White House was purposefully detonated, the Ikons made their countermove. A pointed message was uploaded to Lex Luthor's presidential page, and while the content precluded its having been read or edited by anyone other than an alien invader, it was not taken down. There was no one left to do so. All had been cowed by the truth of their new president, or had been killed in the blast.

Barbara speed read the terse message, but slowed down when she realized the enormity of their proposal. They—openly declaring themselves as the Ikons—were no longer amused by humanity's resistance to their takeover, and would act accordingly. To destroy humanity's spirit and disabuse them of the right to disobey they would destroy a major city in the United States every day until they gave in to their rightful masters. Full and total capitulation was the only way to stop the destruction, and by handing over the remnants of the supercommunity.

In order to spur humanity to 'do the right thing,' they released the order of the cities to be destroyed. They would begin at noon tomorrow, and Barbara put her head down on her desk when she read the first city on the list.

They would begin with Gotham.

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Watchtower Medical Station, 3:47 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

Tim Drake kept his attention entirely focused on the computer monitor which was connected to Barbara's computer, even though the meeting had yet to begin. They were still waiting for the Flash and Green Lantern, who had gotten caught up in a meeting about civilian protection with the mayors of New York and California, but were on their way to the nearest safehouse. While he waited, Tim flexed his toes on his good foot, and breathed deeply when he could not do so on the other. Because he didn't have them any more. Just the big toe and the second toe, and his balance was _shot_ because he was missing _toes_ and it would hurt just to walk for how long—

 _Nope,_ he told himself. _No thinking of weakness. No thinking of anything other than the mission ahead of you. Nope, nope, nope._

He licked his lips and immediately wished his hadn't. God damn they still stung, and it was incredibly disconcerting to poke his tongue along the scabbed over wounds. It brought back memories of lying there helplessly as the interrogator Ikon slowly stitched them together.

 _Hold still, Timothy Drake,_ she had said, droplets of his own blood trailing down the thread that held his mouth shut. As if he could move through the tranquilizers. _It will all be over moderately soon._

Tim closed his eyes to block out the memory, but others like it intruded all the more strongly. Strapped down to the table, watching them remove his toes with surgical precision and without anesthetic. Roy Harper screaming his head off, begging and pleading for it to stop. The glint of the scalpel as it dragged up its belly, slicing him open with ease. By that point he had been so far gone from fear and pain and their drugs that he almost couldn't feel it, but he could see Dick's horrified face, his blue eyes wide as he struggled against his own captor for a chance to help Tim.

 _Let him go!_ He'd screamed. _Tim! Tim!_ TIM!"

"Tim? You sleeping? Jeez, I haven't said your real name in a while. How 'bout . . . wake up, Timantha, it's time for the meeting."

Tim sucked in a surprised inhale, his eyes fluttering open. Jason stood above him, wearing his Batman costume but with the cowl pushed back. The effect of seeing his 'brother's' face with his 'father's' costume made his eyes sting, before the concern in Jason's green eyes made him push it back.

 _Weakness makes him uncomfortable,_ he reminded himself. _And he's gotta be strong. I can do this. Pull yourself together, Drake!_

"I'm up," he croaked. "And don't call me Timantha."

"Could call you Shirley," Jason tiredly quipped. He slumped down in the chair that was next to Tim's bedside.

"Don't be ridiculous," Damian muttered. Tim jolted and craned his neck to see his other 'brother.' He stepped into view and continued chastising Todd. "It's unbefitting of a man your age."

Tim felt like pointing out that Jason was only 23, give or take the year-ish he had been dead, but knowing Damian, that point wouldn't mean much.

"Yeah, yeah," Jason muttered. "You just suck all the fun out of everything, don't you?"

Damian tsked, and Tim cut that off before it could grow into a whine. "What are you guys doing up here? Shouldn't you be in the Batcave preparing for the attack on Gotham?"

" _Todd_ wanted the three of us to be together for the last mission debriefing," Damian sneered. "Even though we're all going our separate ways after, because—"

"This may be the last time we're all together," Jason said, in a quiet, measured voice. For a moment he sounded so unlike the manic Red Hood and so like Bruce Wayne that Tim's breath caught in his throat.

Even Damian reacted to Jason's moment of maturity. "Fine," he huffed, turning his body so that he was facing the monitors in front of them, rather than Tim's mangled form. "But don't come running to me when this is all over."

"That's when we tend to run away from you, Dami," Tim said.

Damian hesitated. "Drake, that reminds me. Something must be done about Brown when this is all over."

That was . . . unexpected. What had prompted that, the running away bit or the nickname? "Wait, what? _What?_ "

"Wow, you guys are fighting over the girls already?" Jason said. "She's a bit old for the Demon Child, isn't she?"

"I was too old for both you and Dick, and that didn't stop either of you from chasing after me," Barbara Gordon said through her monitor, looking right at them. All three men stiffened, wondering when, exactly, she'd started listening and how much she'd overheard.

"It's time for the meeting," she said more kindly. "I'll patch you in."

Jason nodded at her. "Yes, ma'am."

"Ready guys?" Tim offered up quietly as the monitors flickered to life, revealing the rest of the New League. Green Arrow and Shazam were in a safehouse together, as were Green Lantern and the Flash. Barbara was in her Clocktower, and Superboy was on a monitor of his own, in an apartment Tim thought might have been one of his.

 _He better not leave it a mess,_ Tim thought, before reflecting on his own messy habits. _Well,_ more _of a mess._

Barbara opened the meeting. "Gentlemen, we only have so much time to move. We have until noon tomorrow to eradicate the Ikons. We have individuals in place to take down the magical pulse, but we don't know when exactly that will be. We cannot risk the Ikons moving things ahead of schedule, however. We need to find a way to distract and delay them until the pulse has been destroyed . . . and then we must destroy _them."_

"Green Lantern and Red—I mean, the current Batman have already proven that they can be hurt, or trapped. Any other ideas or suggestions?"

There was a moment of silence as they all considered.

Then, "Explosions," Jason offered up to absolutely no one's surprise. "Get 'em in a gauntlet and bottleneck it. Trap 'em under rubble. Worked last time," he finished with a shrug, ignoring the disbelieving looks through the monitor.

"It . . . actually kind of did," Kon offered up. "The Ikon took about 10 minutes to resurface."

"Somehow I think they won't be making that mistake again," Barbara murmured. "They're incredibly adaptable, and very intelligent."

"We could piss Hal off?" Green Arrow offered. "That seemed to work ok, last time."

"Shayera—I mean, the Ikon took off immediately after Hal hurt her," the Flash pointed out. "Trapping seems like a better alternative."

"Or both," Green Lantern muttered. "I'm down for that."

"Don't we have to find them first?" Shazam asked.

"Oh, we know exactly where they are," Barbara said. "They've been openly sighted in major cities across the nation: Luthor is in Washington, Shayera is in Chicago, Ra's al Ghul is in Los Angeles, Bane is in Seattle, and John Stewart is in Houston. They're waiting for us in plain sight, far enough apart that can only hit one at a time, or by splitting up."

"Sooooooo trap?" Green Arrow sighed. "Goddamnit. I hate their traps."

Shazam put a hand on Arrow's shoulder. "Five of them, and seven of us? Who's gonna double up?"

"Five of us," Barbara said.

At the same time that Damian corrected, "Eight of us."

Everyone stared at the youngest batboy, Jason and Tim included.

"Somebody needs to go back to first grade math class," Arrow snarked.

"You're not going out there, Damian," Barbara reprimanded him. "Bruce was specific. Jason works best alone, and no one else knows Bruce's fighting patterns."

Tim refrained from pointing out that he did. As he had convinced Barbara to let him be Jason and Kon's backup for the mission, their mission control from outer space, he didn't have a leg to stand on when it came to Damian. She would largely take the other three combinations, as she was better than he at multitasking.

"There is someone else," Damian said obliquely. "And if you think you can stop me from closing out this war with you all, you are sadly mistaken. Now that Drake is . . . out of commission, there is no one here who can face my grandfather in combat, nor the Ikon that has spent so much time and energy into perfecting his facade, as well as utilizing his resources. I am the only one who knows what he will do, how he will react, and ultimately, how to defeat him. To that effect, I have already put a plan of my own into place. I assure you, I will not fail."

In the silence that followed, Tim studied Damian's determination. There was no trace of a lie in his arrogant assertion, and after mentally reviewing the individuals who could not only keep up with Damian, but fight well with him and who were not already dead, he came up with a distressingly low number of candidates for who this mysterious eighth fighter could be. In point of fact, it was only one person, and when Tim opened his mouth to call Damian out on effectively hiring a retired mercenary, he felt a light pressure on his wrist.

He looked over to see Jason shake his head minutely, squeezing his wrist reassuringly before letting go.

"Ok, so Baby Wayne and his plus one are calling al Ghul," Arrow said. "Great. Can I pick now?"

"Let's address Shayera, first," Barbara said. "With her capacity for flight, we need Lantern or Superboy to face her in Chicago."

"I'm going after John," Lantern argued. "It's my duty as Lantern Corps. I doubt he'll be using the ring—not sure if Ikons even can—but if he does, I'm the best equipped to deal with it."

Kon shuffled his feet. Tim knew he was uncomfortable fighting women—and to the death, no less—but after a moment he gamely offered up, "Guess I'm taking Chicago then. Good thing I wasn't part of the evac effort, otherwise they'd probably send the army after me."

"So Shayera, Ra's, and John are all taken care of. This leaves Bane in Seattle and Luthor in Washington," Barbara noted.

"I call Luthor," Arrow said, raising his hand like a kid in class. "I've uh, heard a bit about his toys, and let me tell you—that tacky mechanical battle suit he totes around upon occasion? I've got an arrow for that."

"And if he leaves the battle suit at home and sticks with his magic Ikon powers?" Jason pointed out, dryly.

Arrow grinned, baring white teeth. "Got an arrow for that, too. Right through the brainpan."

"Maybe I should go with him for backup?" Shazam offered, casting a nervous glance towards his new best friend in the League. Tim wasn't sure he believed Kon that Billy was younger than they were, but now that he was looking, it was beginning to make sense.

Ugh, a part of him wished Bruce was still alive merely so he could kill him again for _keeping all these secrets._

"We need you to face Bane," Barbara said. "You're the only powerhouse left."

"What about me?" The Flash asked.

"Yeah, what am I, chopped liver?" Jason pouted.

Barbara sighed. "Batman needs to stay in Gotham, otherwise the city will panic. James Gordon has been reinstated as Commissioner, and you'll be working with him to keep the peace. If any of us fail, you will also be the last line of defense. Now that Robin won't be at your side as I'd originally planned . . ." She exhaled shakily. "Don't fail, Jason. Just—just don't."

"I won't, Babs," he promised her quietly. Tim could see his right hand tremble. "I'll see this through."

"And Barry?" Lantern cut in, not moved by the tenuous moment Jason and Barbara shared. "You don't want him helping out with John or Luthor or Ra's?"

Barbara ignored Hal, instead addressing the Flash. "I hesitate to assign you a primary target as you're the only one who can travel to any of those locations quickly enough to provide almost immediate assistance. I will be contacting you foremost so I can direct you towards whomever needs the most help. Tim will be acting secondary, so please follow his commands and suggestions as your would mine."

"So Barry potentially gets to fight _all_ the Ikons?" Arrow clarified. "Lucky."

"Lucky is maybe not the word I'd choose," the Flash said, but he took Barbara's direction well. "I understand, Oracle. I'll be on standby. If you give me a point equidistant to the farthest locations?"

"Will do," she replied. "I'll send it to you within the next half hour. As soon as we're all in position I'll send the order out." She sighed, and looked directly at her camera. "Gentlemen, no matter what happens over the next 24 hours, it was an honor to work with you. I believe in every single one of you. Good luck, and bring home victory."

"We aren't gonna need _luck,"_ Arrow said just before he turned his monitor off. "We're gonna need a goddamn miracle."

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Safe house, Central City, 4:32 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

Hal grabbed him as soon as the monitor flickered off. Barry was surprised, but went into his embrace willingly. Hal had been touch and go emotionally for the last several days, ever since they'd first come together on Howard West's bed. While Barry had—eventually—been able to 'talk' him into a passing semblance of normalcy, it pretty much consisted of fighting together, fucking each other, or sleeping. There was very little in between, and Hal was never one for emotional closeness.

Or so Barry had always thought.

"I want you in Houston with me," Hal said, ducking his head so he mumbled against Barry's neck. Like one of Pavlov's dogs, Barry's whole body suddenly snapped to attention. Damn, but Hal speaking in that tone of voice made him want unspeakable things now. It reminded him of when he'd used that exact tone of voice during their fourth go round, sometime during day 13 of the Ikon takeover, and had explicitly and filthily told Barry exactly what he wanted to do with him, and how long he'd suck on his cock before letting him come.

That Barry was so physically attuned to Hal's growly rasp was probably not a good thing, in the long run.

"Probably will be at some point," he said quietly, tentatively putting his arms around Hal's shoulders. "But I'd feel better if you didn't need me."

Hal's grip around his waist tightened, and Barry's heart was painfully full. He was past the point of wondering how he'd come to love Hal this much—his snarky, moody, total asshole of a best friend for the past decade. The past six days had shown him just how futile it was to fight it when each interlude was hotter than the last, and every hour spent sleeping, eating, or secretly patrolling to combat panic felt like a futile exercise in restraint. He'd been panting—literally panting—for Hal two days ago, when they'd had to spend three hours apart. And when they met back up again in one of Oracle's sanctioned safehouses, they'd barely been able to close the door before ripping off their uniforms and devouring each other.

Coming together in the depths of Hal's grief was a sea change in an hour, but rather than be discombobulated, Barry could only be grateful that he'd be able to experience love of this depth, this magnitude again. He hadn't thought he'd love this much after Iris's passing. Now, he was terrified about what would happen when he would inevitably lose _Hal._

"I'm not losing you here," Barry said quietly, determinedly. Although it was risky—Hal was more of a sex-me-hard-against-the-wall guy, rather than a kiss-me-gently-on-the-mouth guy, he turned his head to press a close-mouthed kiss to Hal's temple. "Do you hear me, Harold Jordan? We are going to win, and save the world."

For a moment, Hal's grip on him was painfully tight. _Jesus he's strong,_ Barry thought, somewhat inanely, before returning the embrace with all his own strength.

Then, "After this . . . " Hal murmured, so quietly Barry could barely hear him. "Barry, we—"

Something in his tone was vaguely defeatist, and he was absolutely not going to let him finish that thought. Barry pulled his head back so he could kiss him, shutting him up in the best way he knew how.

After the past week they knew how to communicate via sex, if not with words. Hal groaned and kissed him back, and they spent the last few minutes of freedom before the final battle without pulling apart.

..

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Gotham, 6:29 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

Commissioner Gordon had never been this nice to him, and Jason certainly didn't want him starting now.

The old man rubbed the back of his neck, wearing his signature trench coat even though it was 75 degrees out. "I'm really sorry about Bruce and Richard. More than you know."

Jason grunted noncommittally. The last thing he needed now was to remember his former mentor and lover. _Current lover,_ he told himself. _He's not dead yet. I'd know._

"And if there's anything I can do—"

"Look, the last time we interacted you spat on my helmet and told me I'd have been better off dead," Jason said, referencing two years ago when he'd disappointed Bruce _again_ by blowing up an old warehouse on the border of the Docks and the Narrows. "Let's just keep this professional, ok?"

For a moment Gordon was still, all expression wiped from his face. Then he looked down at the ground and sighed. "Yeah, ok, 'Batman.'"

"Now, what do you need _me_ to do?" Jason said, turning the conversation around. "You're the Commissioner, here. Let's act like it."

It was a little harsh, but he didn't think it merited the spasm of rage that crossed the old man's face. _Note to self: Babs's dad is about to break,_ Jason thought. _The tension's got to him._

"Take the City Center and the Downtown area," Gordon said. "Then fly around, let as many people see you as you can. I'll let you know if any trouble crops up that the boys in the GCPD can't handle."

That was a surprisingly hands-off approach. Jason assumed it was because the old man really did hate him—it wasn't like he hadn't destroyed good chunks of the city during his tenure as the Red Hood—and wanted to give the old man a piece of his mind, but just then Oracle's voice crackled over his earpiece.

"Batman, come in."

"Hear ya, O," he said, walking away from the Commissioner. "Whatcha got for me?"

"A problem," she said, her voice tight. "Kon just called in. Shayera's no longer in Chicago. She engaged him almost immediately, but then took off across Lake Michigan. I've been tracking her east by the destruction she's causing and civilian sightings and I'm pretty sure she's headed for Gotham. If she gets there, you're going to have to delay her."

"Of course she is," Jason muttered. "Why'd Kon disengage?" He asked, thinking that he'd have to be dead or dying, and that the news would send Tim into a tailspin.

"I had to call him off," Barbara said tersely.

"What? Why? I can't fly after her, Babs!"

"Because a good portion of the United States Army is headed to Gotham, too."

Jason's stomach dropped. "Tell me it's for civilian protection."

"I wish I could."

Piped across the city in the PA system that Babs had helped create, used in times of trouble, the mayor's voice came, sounding panicked. "The army is marching on Gotham! Repeat, the army is marching on Gotham! They were assured that the rest of the country will be safe if Gotham is destroyed! While this is an obvious ploy from the Iconoclasts' to turn our nation against itself, 18 battalions have been reported missing for duty. They have been spotted within several hours of us, and are headed our way!"

"Who the fuck voted for this expositional asshole?" Jason swore, as all around him, people began to riot. "I mean, really? Did that require that much explanation?"

" _Jason,"_ Barbara ground out.

"Working on it," he said, and then there was no more time to talk.

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **New Jersey, 6:48 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

There was never a time in Barry Allen's life where he thought he'd be fighting what seemed like half of the U.S. army with only Superboy at his side. Well, above him, really, but what was important was that the ordeal ahead of him was such a massive reversal from the norm that he quailed for a moment. He paused only fifty feet away from the back of the advancing herd of tanks, soldiers, and jets overhead, and thought, _I can't do this. This goes against my country. This goes against_ everything.

This moment of weakness was broken by Superboy flying ahead, whooping like a cowboy as he outraced the jets, firing heat lasers from his eyes to take out all jets' weapons, and frosting their windshields to force them to the ground. Several of the jets dive-bombed him, like kamikaze fighters in WWII, but a surprisingly large number chose to land the plane rather than engage.

Still, not every pilot could land the plane safely, and others would not survive their mad rush towards Superboy. Men were dying out there, and Kon-El wasn't flinching. How could Barry do any less?

"Here goes," he mutters, before he began moving double time. He raced through enemy lines, stealing guns and caltrops out of soldier's hands and supply bags, racing in hundreds of trips to dispose of those guns, and scatter caltrops in front of the tanks. Later trips he began tying shoelaces together and punching random soldiers, so that they might begin fighting themselves. About forty seconds in those still with weapons began firing on him, but they were all far too slow, and soldiers began dying because of him, too.

Planes began landing all around him in a ten mile radius, some in control of their vehicles, others not. Smoke billowed thickly, and the men screamed out orders. All was chaos and panic, and after racing out of the blast zone for a moment of calm, Barry slipped on a pair of Kid Flash's goggles.

"This is for you, Wally," he whispered, and he dove back in.

He held nothing back this time. Every soldier, every tank, every battalion that he stopped here would be unable to advance on Gotham, and thus another person alive at the end of this. He flashed in and out of the battlefield, leading the men with guns to fire on their own men, their own tanks. A plane exploded nearby, only fifty feet away, and debris rained down. He raced up to another flank, and began again. Guns, caltrops, shoelaces, panic. He ducked in an out to gulp in fresh air, a luxury no one else had, and the soldiers could hardly breathe for the smoke.

He dove back in, making sure to stop every single soldier he could without outright killing them.

When more arrived, he kept on.

When the third wave came in, he could no longer afford to be so meticulous. Something had to give, and when he punched a soldier hard enough that her helmet popped off and her neck snapped, there was no time or energy within him to feel guilt.

He had to keep moving. Fighting. Protecting.

Or else they _all_ might die.

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Clocktower, Gotham, 7:18 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

Barbara pounded furiously on her keyboard, leaning forward in her wheelchair to monitor the rioting crowds in Gotham—barely held in place by Jason and her father's efforts—Shayera's oddly slow approach, and the Flash and Superboy's attempt to keep the army at bay. She was doing all she could to keep communication lines open in Gotham (after the Mayor had committed suicide sixteen minutes back, her job had gotten notably easier) when all of a sudden, a familiar voice piped in on her com.

"Oracle?"

She kept on typing at incredible speed, and never took her gaze off the monitors. "Yes, Lantern?"

He sounded breathless. "Not a cause for major concern, but I'm having trouble keeping John in the south. He's dogfighting me steadily northeast. Even though he's not using his ring, I'm afraid he's gonna do that teleportation thing they can do again."

That made her pause. "Again?"

"He's already tried it once," Hal admitted. "I got a construct of a tracker on him, and he made it to Little Rock before he realized it was pulling me along, too."

"Where are you now?" She asked, even as her tracker on Hal showed him in Nashville, TN.

"On his tail," he answered grimly. "And I'm doing fine—got a couple good hits in—but he's moving pretty steadily towards New Jersey."

"Got it. Do your best to keep him from Gotham," she ordered.

"Will do." Lantern cut the connection without ceremony, and Barbara turned her attention back to her monitors with a renewed purpose. She had to clear as much commotion as she could before 'John Stewart' made it to Gotham, otherwise—

"Hey, Oracle? I have a complaint." Green Arrow hailed in, aiming for humor and missing it by a good margin.

"What's wrong?"

Arrow sighed. "It's not an immediate problem as Luthor is slow as molasses in his dumb ass battle suit, but he's definitely trying to outrun me to Gotham. He—Jackass! Stop running red lights! They're there for a reason!"

Barbara assumed only half of that was directed towards her. "Can you stop him?"

"Trying," he sing-songed. "But—oh, and now he's flying. That's cheating, you jerk!"

"Arrow, do you need assistance?"

"What? No. Kevin'll pick me up and we'll make time in the air. But uh, just giving you some warning: Luthor's Gotham-bound." His tone changed. "Yes, I'll be out of the city in two minutes. Oh, just land it wherever, I'll get to you—"

He cut off abruptly, but as his personal tracker showed his vitals were still strong, Barbara assumed he'd done so to work out a travel plan with his pilot and assistant, Kevin Udai. She rushed to check the location of 'Ra's' and 'Bane,' but they were still located in Los Angeles and Seattle, respectively. Yet while Arrow's Ikon seemed to be toying with him, and Hal's couldn't teleport without bringing him along for the ride, she had no doubt that the others would teleport whenever they needed to, and only Shazam would be able to keep up.

"Shit," she murmured. No wonder Shayera was hanging back—she was waiting to regroup with Luthor and Stewart. Their bluff was called and they were all converging on Gotham.  
"Jason?" She activated his com. "They're coming in waves, but they're all headed your way."

His reply was dark and manic, all at once. Just like him.

 _"Bring it."_

 _..._

 _..._

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Azarath, Early Evening**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

It took three days for Tim and Zatanna's inherent magic to recover from their time in Hell, and another day after that for them all to decide upon the ritual that would transport them to Azarath without draining too much magic. Five days after their miraculous return from Hell, John Constantine found himself in the safe planet of Azarath, with an awed Tim Hunter, an annoyed Zatanna Zatara, and an increasingly stressed out Raven.

(She had not taken the list of the dead well, and had holed herself in John's bathroom for a good three hours to regain control of herself when she learned that Garfield Logan and Victor Stone had died. It took Zatanna's coaxing and a reminder of those who were still alive—she dwelt on Koriand'r and Richard Grayson, in particular—to get her back out and focused.)

After she had gotten her focus back, she had smoothed the way immeasurably. Getting them to Azarath alone, the linchpin for their plan to undo the Ikon's spell was enough, but to garner enough goodwill among the inhabitants of the planet to enlist their aid in preparing a ritual site and maintaining a portal to Earth through which their magic would travel was a league beyond helpful. John wondered, as he had several times over the past day or so, what he would have done had Raven not been in Hell.

 _Roasted, probably,_ he decided, and then left his recollections aside. His trenchcoat batted at his knees as he walked over the ritual site one last time. The leftmost point of the triangle was where Timmy boy would stand, providing the raw power and determination; and across from him, at the bottom rightmost point, Zatanna, who would further fuel the spell with her expertise and her burning anger. Raven would be at the top of the triangle, channelling her half-demon power into the ritual, while John would stand at the center and direct all the energy into the 'support structure' of the 'house,' to bring it all tumbling down.

(His analogy to Barbara Gordon was more apt than he'd realized, at the time. What had begun as a way to explain the nebulous movement and properties of magic took shape in his mind. To assign form to something formless was the first way of defeating it, after all, and so in his mind he had built up the spell as the house he had described, and that image would help him—hopefully—destroy it's actual counterpart.)

Raven floated towards him, wearing her signature blue-black robes and veil.

"Are you ready, Constantine?" She asked, in her smooth alto.

John looked back at where Timmy and Z waited for him, as well as a congregation of native (and a few not so native) Azarathians.

"Time for a fag, first?" He asked hopefully.

"No," Raven said, booking no argument. "We need to begin now."

 _Ah well,_ John inwardly sighed as he took up his position in the center of the circle. At least Raven was polite about it. Timmy would have hung around for the next calendar year, not wanting to interrupt or rush his pseudo-mentor, but Zatanna would have smacked him silly or stepped on his foot with her heels and then dragged him by the ear to his position, so, it was really for the best.

John could feel the tingling charge of magic in the air as his three compatriots took their position. Zatanna and Timmy's magical signatures were familiar to him now, but Raven's was a heady rush of human and demon power, held in place by an enormous force of will.

"Ready?" Raven asked once more, looking at everyone in turn.

Tim nodded, and Zatanna muttered quietly, "Let's do this."

John took a deep breath, and sent up a quick prayer to—well, anyone who cared to listen in, he supposed— that this wouldn't end with all of them smeared across the ritual rock like flecks of bolognese sauce, or spinning through the space-time continuum with no way of getting home.

Or in failure. That was kind of a big thing too, at this point.

One by one, they 'powered up.' Energy flared at each point of the spell. Blue for Tim, Red for Zatanna, a murky green for Raven . . . John had no idea why the use of their power was visually portrayed as such, but in the next moment the beams of light converged on him and there was only time to realize that his power was a startling goldenrod before he was overwhelmed. He'd never been set adrift in the magic of three frighteningly powerful mages before, and never wanted to again. Their power bore down on him with all the force and implacability of their personalities, their wills, their determination. Had he been a lesser man, or one not chosen by the universe to stand at the flotsam and jetsam of chaos and The End, he would have bowed beneath their collective might.

But he was John Constantine, and he bloody well did not. Taking all of his own power and personality in hand, he visualized the Iconoclast's spell, a ragged, tumble-down of a house. He could see the beams holding up the structure like they were all that existed, and with trembling arms, directed a beam of power towards the northernmost one.

It collapsed without fuss, but in the real world, Timmy fell to his knees.

 _Another, Constantine!_ He heard Raven say in his mind. Perhaps her demon heritage allowed her to communicate with him now, but he took her advice. He shot another colored beam of light towards the second beam, and it too, fell.

Zatanna collapsed with a cry, her power fading out along with Tim's. Now it was just Raven and John, and two beams left to totter the whole thing . . .

 _Use all mine,_ Raven invited, strained. _Save yours for the end. It must be done!_

Sweat dripped down from his hairline, although the strain was all magical, not physical. His vision blurred, and the house swung before his gaze. In a moment of clarity he fired off another beam, felling both beam and Raven. Her power cessated from him as she fell to her hands and knees, and John Constantine was alone.

 _As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,_ he thought; a whisper of a Catholic prayer coming to mind. _John Constantine alone, at the end of all things. This is when you shine, Johnny-boy. This is where you triumph._

The breath staled in his lungs, and he could no longer draw in fresh oxygen. The world dimmed at the edges, but he raised his hand in real life and in his vision. His fingertips pointed at the final beam. His power tore from him, a lightning bolt of magic and intent, and the house toppled down.

John fell, and with him so did the Ikons' spell.

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **The Narrows, Gotham, 8:07 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

Jason had never, _ever_ thought he'd say this, but he had blown up three buildings in the last ten minutes, and he never wanted to do so ever again. The heat and pulse and force of the explosion, rain of debris, and terror it had caused the civilians still in the area notwithstanding, it just didn't have the same capacity for fulfilment as it had prior to the Ikon invasion.

This was largely because it hadn't worked.

"Do not resist, Jason Todd," 'Shayera's' voice called down to him, eerily without inflection, even while she was chasing him down through the terror-stricken streets of Gotham.

"Yeah, fuck that," Jason swore, and gunned the batbike, careening down Holmes Avenue which led down into the Narrows. His gauntlet scenario hadn't worked—although it had left the largely abandoned Worthington Street projects as a pile of rubble—but he was by no means finished. He just had to get her away from the fleeing civilians, and then he'd try again.

Tim's voice in his ear was his only warning. "Jason! Veer right!"

Without hesitation, Jason did as he commanded, taking him out of Shayera's path. She dove just past him, her mighty wings folded like she was some kind of murderous peregrine falcon. Jason barely avoided being bashed to death by her mace. This was the closest she had gotten to him since she had converged on the city forty minutes prior. Jason reached for explosive pellets—hadn't done too much before, but hell he was game to try again—but it required a hand off the bars, and it was a luxury he couldn't afford. The bike ran afoul of the debris that studded the streets and Jason's stomach lurched as he found himself suddenly perpendicular to the road. The back tires had rose up while the front had caught, and he was thrown forward off the bike.

He tucked and rolled, but when one was thrown off a moving vehicle going more than 70 mph, one's chances were few. Had he not been sensationally lucky and wearing the batsuit, he would have died on impact. As it was, the wind was knocked from him, he couldn't feel, let alone move his lower legs, and the world spun dizzily where it was not converging onto blackness.

There was a familiar, tinny voice screaming in his ear, telling him to get up, to move, to run . . . but Jason couldn't make sense of it. Couldn't make sense of anything. Couldn't breathe, either, but somehow that was less worrisome than the blurry, winged shape that landed on the ground not ten feet away from him. Moving on an instinct that came from his bones, rather than his brain, Jason struggled for the pistol still strapped to his thigh.

At least he could move his arms. That was a plus.

Breath still eluded him, and the world was more dark than spinny, now. The voice in his ear was no more recognizable, but the gun in his hand was. He knew every part of it; could strip it down and reassemble it in less than a minute, on a good day. This was not a good day.

Thankful, then, that all he had to do was aim and shoot.

The tinny voice told him it wouldn't work, but he was past caring. Raising himself onto an elbow, he aimed with his left, shaking hand. His lungs finally got their goddamned act together and he sucked in a small, but much needed breath. The monster wearing Shayera's face was only a foot away now, and opened her mouth to speak.

Jason exhaled, surrendering his precious oxygen, and fired.

The gun went off with a deafening crack, but the sound of Shayera's body falling to the ground was much more profound. Jason struggled for more breath, more oxygen, to make sense of it. Shayera was an Ikon, invincible, yet blood was spilling onto the ground, a morbid pillow seeping outwards from her head in a perfect circumference.

Jason had not missed. But he couldn't understand it. Why was Shayera dead?

He pulled himself over to the alien's body, and without regard for his own safety, reached out to check her pulse. Nothing. No breath, either. Before his muddled brain could make sense of this, the body began seeping away, turning gray and liquid . . . and then it began to glow.

There was barely enough time and wherewithal for Jason to look away before the Ikon flashed, brighter than a solar flare. By the time he glanced back cautiously over the crook of his arm, the Ikon was nothing more than a blood stain, and a shadow of darkness against the pavement.

 _Concussion,_ Jason finally put together. _Head injury. Something's wrong._ And then, with a flash of realization, _Tim._

"Hey, Tim?" He croaked, wondering why he had gone silent when he'd been so determinedly yelling in his ear only moments ago. "I think I killed one."

He said it again when he didn't reply. In the silence that followed—and it was a strange, unsettled silence, because even the city was silent and Gotham was _never_ quiet—he put it together. Tim probably was replying. He just couldn't hear it, because he couldn't hear anything.

 _Oh, that's not good,_ he thought, only partially coherent. He was breathing now, but that was only mildly helpful when he couldn't hear, couldn't feel his legs, remember his middle name, or the sequence of events that led him to laying on his back in the middle of the goddamn . . . where was he again? Gotham. The goddamned Gotham.

 _I think I need Batman,_ he thought. Or maybe he said it out loud, he didn't know anymore. His lips felt funny and so did the words. Thinking of Batman made him think of Robin, however, and he surrendered to his injuries, passing out with Dick Grayson's name on his lips.

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Outskirts of Baltimore, MD, 8:07 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

Oliver Queen was not having fun. Not that he should be, mind you, but he was pretty sure that somebody needed to, and if anyone, it should be him. After all, he was fighting a baddie in a mechanical battle suit, like he was in some kind of Japanese comic book _._ If that wasn't the most goddamned ridiculous thing he'd ever done in his life . . . well, ok, it totally wasn't, but still. Should be more fun than it currently was.

It might have helped had he been able to down Luthor _before_ Baltimore, but as long as it wasn't Gotham he figured he was technically ahead of the game. It had been a stroke of fucking genius and his own skillful mastery to hit Luthor with the arrow that was implanted with a tiny, yet powerful, electromagnetic pulse. That it had taken almost twenty minutes to work the way it was supposed to was unfortunate, but hey—he'd told Oracle that he wouldn't let Luthor get to Gotham, and he delivered.

Kevin landed the small, yet ridiculously fast aircraft—Ollie never remembered the brand name of the helicopter . . . Cirrus? Fire Bolt? Nimbus 2000? Hell if he cared, as long as it flew—only half a mile away from the downed Ikon. Rather than snapping at his pilot for the clumsy landing, he immediately took off across the field, swinging his bow into position, prepping a detonating arrow.

The distance was insane, and he was half-jogging across a field that was crafted by god to twist ankles and injure shins. He pulled his arm back, nocked bow to arrow, and fired anyway.

It was hard to tell who was more surprised when the arrow hit home, lodging itself into the grooves at the battle suit's hip. There was a moment of almost comical dismay when the Ikon looked down at the arrow protruding from its suit; the detonation mechanism on the shaft blinking a frantic _redredredredred._ Ollie hit the deck moments before the arrow exploded, taking refuge between weeds and what he could only describe as tufty little hedge things.

When the dust settled, so to speak, Ollie popped up with a speed that his knees protested. He wasn't a young man anymore, and all this running around was getting harder with every passing year. He half expected the Ikon to have taken the advantage and fled while he was down—as they could teleport, apparently, according to Hal—but there Luthor the Ikon was, having ditched the battle suit, going so far as to brush the shoulders of his Armani suit while wearing an expression of mild displeasure.

 _Prick,_ Ollie thought, even though it wasn't really Luthor and there were far worse things to call the Ikons. _That suit better be fucking scuffed._

"Really, Oliver?" The Ikon called out, the diction and cadence of his voice far more natural than Shayera the Ikon's had been. "You know how nice this suit is. I'll just send you the bill, shall I?"

"Oh _hell_ no," Ollie snapped. "We are not playing this game. I do not refund potential alien overlords their dry cleaning. Now get over here, and let me kick your ass."

"Temper, temper," 'Luthor' smirked. "I would have thought your bravado had cooled after the death of Dinah Lance. But it seems you are, as they say, as 'hot to trot' as ever. Didn't care much for her in the end, did you?"

Rage swamped him. His mind shut down and his body took over, trusting on muscle memory honed over a good twenty years of intensive practice. Ollie had the arrow nocked so quickly his forearms burned with the effort. He let fly and the aim was true—within seconds, the Ikon had a metal arrow shaft through his throat, piercing his adam's apple, and protruding through the back of his neck.

"Oh, very good," the Ikon gurgled. "I must say, I am impressed. I almost couldn't have avoided that."

"You didn't," Ollie pointed out, his voice cold as steel.

"I didn't need to." The Ikon slowly withdrew the arrow, pulling the barbed shaft slowly from his throat. Blood gouted after it, coating his white dress shirt, slicking the arrow's shaft. Ollie had a moment of visceral pleasure at the carnage, but with a quick flick of the hand, 'Luthor' had repaired the damage, and his throat was pristine.

He smiled viciously at Ollie. "You see? There is literally _nothing_ you can do to us. I know you're not the smartest member of your league, so I'll make it simple for you. We are invincible. _We cannot die."_

Dinah's determination ghosted through his mind; a memory of his last moments. "Then I may put _several_ arrows through your brainpan," he said, calmly. "Before I die, I'd like at least three."

The Ikon sneered at him, and Ollie nocked one last arrow to his bow.

"Oh please," Luthor huffed. "I'm not going to make it easy this time. In fact—" The Ikon cut himself off, shivering; frozen for just a moment.

In that moment, Oracle's voice rose over the com. " _Shayera's down!"_ She shouted wildly. " _They can be killed!"_

Ollie's nerveless fingers let go before she finished her report. The arrow cut through the air, a race against the Ikon's momentary immobilization. For they could teleport, and were quick as thought, and unless Ollie's release had been fast enough, the Ikon would make it to Gotham before the arrow hit home.

The Ikon began to shimmer, almost like he was beaming up in Star Trek—

The arrow hurtled closer, on a direct course for the Ikon's head—

The moment of collision—

Ollie blinked, and both Ikon and arrow were gone. "Shit," he breathed. "Shit shit—did it hit him?" He ran across the field, ignoring the major spray of blood on the ground. No Ikon, no arrow . . . how was he supposed to know if he'd made it in time?

He activated the comlink with a tap of his gloved finger. "Oracle, Luthor's gone. I may have hit him, but he and the arrow disappeared."

Following an impulse, he jogged on another ten feet, then twenty. At the top of a hillock he saw an odd shape and chased after it.

"Get to Gotham," Oracle ordered him. "They're all heading that way."

Ollie was now close enough to see an Armani-clad shoulder. Five more steps, and he saw the arrow, lodged into Luthor's right eye. Just as he got close enough to see Luthor's other, open, staring, lifeless eye, the body flashed brightly, and then disintegrated into nothingness.

The arrow dropped down to the ground, still coated in blood and aqueous humor.

"Through the brainpan, Ikon," he muttered, before activating his com once more. "Uh, belay my last update, O," he said. "I got him. Luthor's down."

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Lexington, KY, 8:15 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

The dogfight was getting tiring, and Hal was getting more and more pissed. He hated fighting John Stewart when he was actually John Stewart, largely as John's constructions were always way more structurally sound than his. Hal may have had the keener edge when it came to tactics, and the more marked aggression, but there was a stolidity in John's fighting style that had occasionally overcome him, in the past.

The Ikon who wore John's face was nothing like him, save that he _looked_ like him, sounded like him, taunted like him, and was currently invincible.

At least he had gotten him out of the downtown area. They were still pretty close to the famous race track, but the chance for civilian casualties were far lower now that they were making their way into the green farm lands. Hal threw a rocket at John, only for it to be batted away with 'John's' bare hand. None of his constructs had landed, only a few bare handed punches which, had he not been swathed in a protective aura of power from Appa's ring, would have broken his own bones. As it was, they had barely staggered the Ikon.

Still, it was the only thing that had been effective at all, and Hal was considering going for it again. Only the knowledge that he was vulnerable that close to the Ikon had kept him from pressing what little advantage he had. If he got too close to the Ikon, it would be much easier for the Ikon to take _him_ down.

Without warning, John froze. His body quivered violently, and Hal, thinking that he was about to teleport again, threw a tracker on him. The construct held, and Hal prepared to be dragged after the Ikon . . . but this time, it didn't happen.

Instead, 'John' huffed angrily, and rose into the air so that he was face to face with Hal. "I've had enough," he growled. "This accomplishes nothing. You are part of an intergalactic fighting force—do you not understand what we are trying to do here?"

"Oh, I think I get it just fine," Hal snarked, pulling back and preparing another construct.

"This is for the good of your entire planet," 'John' argued, his tone turning earnest. "Worse comes in our wake. We seek to combine and protect both our peoples!"

"Sure you do," Hal drawled, furious. "And killing Carol was for the good of everyone, huh?"

The Ikon's face twisted in dismay. "No," he admitted. "That was a terrible mistake."

Hal froze. For a moment he was overcome with the certainty that this _was_ John. Somehow, a mistake had been made, and maybe John really was still there, alive, perhaps under an Ikon's control—

But it had all been a trick. The Ikon let loose a bolt of magic power, potent enough that Hal could _see_ it. It clung like a spider web around him, and he was struck by the same immovability that Shayera had used against him and Barry on the roof.

 _Time to get angry,_ Hal thought wildly, and reminded himself of Carol's execution. When that didn't work, he imagined what would happen to Barry if 'John' got ahold of him—

"Fool," the Ikon muttered, and raised his hand to direct another bolt of magic at him.

One moment, Hal was frozen in place, straining against his invisible bonds. The next, a physical force akin to a semi rammed into him, knocking him out of the blast zone. Magic detonated the spot where he'd been standing, and when Hal could breathe again, there was Barry, racing in circles around John, moving so quickly he was only identifiable by streaks of crimson and gold, and the dust storm he was kicking up.

Hal had never been so happy to see him in all his fucking days.

"What did I tell you about fighting together?" Barry yelled, and John reeled forward, arms raised protectively. Barry must have gotten a hit in, and Hal staggered to his feet.

"Jesus, Hal," Barry continued, closer by now. "Get it together!"

"Not that I'm complaining, but why are you here?" Hal asked, as he dove back into the fray. He got several good hits in on John before Barry whisked him out of the way of another slash of magic.

"O couldn't get through to you," Barry muttered. "They blocked the coms, we think. But we can kill them. Shayera and Luthor are already down."

"Or we can take him back to the Oans," Hal argued. "He may have information that they need."

"We can't take that risk, Hal! How would we transport him?"

"Javelin. We have to think about the long term benefits. Taking him could mean the end of the Ikon race!"

"Or I could simply kill you both," the Ikon barked. "This won't even be difficult!"

"Oh, shut up!" Barry and Hal said in tandem, rushing him. What followed was a frantic scramble of limbs and power; flashes of magic, the whip of air as Barry rushed past, and the green glare of his constructs as they fizzled in an out of form. The Ikon was still fixed on Hal, sending bolt after bolt of alien magic at him, and at times it was all Hal could do to protect himself with the power of Appa's ring. Barry was little more than a fly buzzing around him, occasionally breaking from physically attacking 'John' to pull Hal out of the way of an attack. Hal was content with that, because he'd rather be the focus of the alien's attention than Barry, but of course that was then it all changed.

With an incredibly un-John Stewart like roar, the Ikon turned his attention to Barry, sending a flare of power after him. Barry staggered, and Hal wasn't sure if he was hit or not. Before he could see if Barry went down, a surge of enraged adrenaline shot through him, and his ring flashed green. It was brighter than his eyes could bear, and the Ikon was similarly affected. He dropped to his knees, and Hal formed a construct of a straightjacket around him.

Knowing he had little time to act—the power of the ring was already fluctuating, and the Ikon would soon break free—Hal stepped forward. No longer did he think about bringing the Ikon to the Oans. This would end here. With him.

He reached out, envisioning the pistol he would form in his mind's eye.

'John' met his gaze and sneered. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, there was a crimson blur that played tricks on Hal's eyes, making it all he could see. Then, there was a pronounced _snap,_ and the Ikon fell forward, dead.

Hal looked up at Barry, who panted lightly as he jogged from foot to foot. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know you wanted him alive, but it's too dangerous."

Hal blinked, amazed. "You snapped his neck."

Barry winced. "Yeah."

"But you've never—you've never killed anyone before."

Barry looked down. "He's not . . . I've killed a lot of people today, Hal."

There was a bright flash of light, and when it passed, Hal's eyes cast down, to where the Ikon was beginning to disintegrate. Hal felt a little like his brain was disintegrating. For all that he had survived, all that he had come through, he could not process the notion that Barry Allen, the kindest, most gentle person in the League, had murdered someone right before his eyes.

 _Here's the shock, Jordan,_ he thought. _Man, your timing is something else._

"Hal, I—"

"I can't—not now," he muttered. "We need to contact Oracle."

"But—"

"Not now," he stressed. He activated his com and reported, "John Stewart's dead. What next?"

Not the John was dead the com line was free again. "Are you fucking serious?" Oracle swore. "Thank god. Is Flash ok?"

"We're both fine," he said, without looking at Barry. "What do you need us to do?"

"Get to Gotham," she said. "Superboy needs help with dispersing the rest of the army—and I mean _dispersing,_ try not to kill anyone more civilians _or_ soldiers, if you can help it—"

"Soldiers?" He spat. "We're killing _soldiers?"_

Barry's silence hung heavily between them, but Oracle was not there to read the mood. " _Gotham,"_ she stressed. "Get here ASAP."

"What about Damian?" Barry asked, subdued. "Does he know the Ikons are vulnerable?"

"Red Robin finally managed to get that information through to him, yes," Oracle said. "I'm more worried about Shazam, frankly."

"Why?" Hal asked, clutching at anything that wasn't _Barry killing aliens,_ or worse, _Barry killing soldiers._

"Because he's _not killing his Ikon,"_ Oracle hissed, and then the com went dead.

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Seattle, WA, 8:39 PM**

 **Day 16**

 **...**

" _Shazam!"_

The great bolt of living lightning split the skies, and created great fissures in the concrete where it hit. Less than a hand's span away from the blast, the Ikon wearing Bane's shape rolled his shoulders and, tauntingly, cracked his neck.

"Is that all you can do?" He asked, with a hint of Bane's accent. "You, who pulled yourself from the grip of our spell?"

"You're not so powerful, yourself," Billy argued, wiping sweat from his brow. "Plus, your magic spell is down, moron."

"And yet you do nothing more than play with me," the Ikon retorted. "Perhaps you are not your own man after all."

Billy flushed with rage, but it wasn't as potent as it used to be. Ever since the Ikons had stolen his autonomy, the only emotions he would let himself feel in their entirety were guilt, exhaustion, and sorrow. Rage, which used to flare so quickly, was muted, along with joy and laughter and contentment. Deep down, he knew why: he was afraid of what would happen if he lost control of himself again, even if it was only _to_ himself, not the Ikons.

This was not the time to resolve it, however, so he launched himself at Bane, fueling his attacks with a lackluster anger. Thankfully his power was undimmed, and his connection to the wizard Shazam stronger than ever. He was as powerful as the Ikon, equally as fast, and when he cleared his mind of doubts, just as canny. If he couldn't hit him with the living lightning—and he'd missed each of the four times he'd already tried—he would just have to . . . to beat him down with his fists.

 _And then you'll have to kill him,_ he told himself, as he blocked a blow, straining against a red-faced Bane as they grappled. _Kill him dead. With your bare hands. Kill. Him. Dead._

Billy let out a pained cry so unexpected it made Bane pause. Before his enemy could recover, Billy used his incredible speed to flash step away from Bane, and then hovered ten feet into the air. The soul-deep aversion he had to killing was making itself more strongly known since he'd killed under Ikon control. Even the thought of Bane falling lifeless to the ground was enough to choke his air and force his body to tremble. Billy had assured Oracle he could fight past these psychosomatic responses, could do what needed to be done, but now that the truth of it was staring Billy in the face.

He didn't think he could do it after all.

'Bane' rose up to meet him, hovering effortlessly in the air. Further proof that he was an alien invader, rather than one of Batman's greatest enemies.

"Taking flight?" He asked, mockingly. "Do you so fear my ability?"

"I don't fear you!" Billy yelled, trying to lose himself in his slowly mounting anger. If only his emotions didn't feel bottlenecked, trapping him as surely as the Ikon's spell had done. "I'm going to kill you!"

The Ikon laughed outright. "Oh, you fool. You do not stand a chance. I learned his determination. I shall _break_ you."

"Wanna bet?"

The Ikon grinned hugely, baring white, sharp teeth. "Prove me wrong."

Billy hurled himself at the Ikon, gritting his teeth in anticipation at the clash. Bane's physical form—when souped up on venom—was larger than his, and the Ikon's magic augmented what Billy could expect of the true Bane's physical prowess. The Ikon matched him blow for blow, hands glowing a blinding white. Billy assumed it was some physical manifestation of his magic, as each hit that landed was far, far too powerful to have come from a human's fists.

Blood and spittle flew as the fight progressed; a blow to his jaw left a loose molar in Billy's mouth. His lungs burned from exertion, and a punch to his gut left him sucking down air. Sweat clouded his vision so that his opponent blurred in front of him, leaving him unsure if he'd hit his shoulder, chest.

He felt the soft give of a throat on one of his punches, and pulled it reflexively. Bane choked, and there was a flare of panic at having come so close to landing a mortal blow. Billy hesitated. It was a mistake.

Bane lunged forward and pulled Billy into his grip, trapping his arms against his body. Billy attempted to shove him off, but it was in vain. The Ikon was too strong, and the position too precarious. With a grin of unholy delight, the Ikon began to glow, and Billy could feel the magic rising in the air.

He struggled desperately in his grip, goading himself to call down the lightning, to end it once and for all . . . when without warning, blood and bone and bits of brain matter exploded outward, directly towards him. At the first touch of viscera against his face he jerked his head back, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. It was this that saved him from joining Bane in death—for an iron arrow shaft protruded from Bane's forehead, splitting through the skull.

"Two for two!" Came a hoarse yell from below. "Go me!"

Shocked, Billy let go of the corpse. It fell heavily. There was a brilliant flash, and before it hit the ground it disintegrated. He floated down after it, stunned. It was over, just like that. He had geared himself up to strike a killing blow at the last . . . but who was to say it would have landed? He'd been pulling his punches and re-directing his lightning strikes at the last moment all evening.

The Ikon had known he would be unable to kill him. Now that it was over, Billy knew that too. It made him sick at heart to admit it, but he was weaker now than he'd ever been.

When his feet touched the ground, two figures stepped out from an adjacent alley. One was Green Arrow, who patted the Flash on the shoulder.

"Mr. Oliver?" Billy asked, as he stumbled over to the two supers. "I thought that was your voice. But what did—How did . . . Did you just—"

"Deep breaths, kiddo," Mr. Oliver said, stepping away from the Flash to sling an arm around Billy's shoulder. "Also, you're welcome."

"Thank you," Billy mumbled automatically, a habit ingrained from years with the Vasquez's, and Mary's dab hand with a rolled up newspaper. "But how did you know I'd not be able to . . .?" He shook his head. "How did you know I'd need help?"

Mr. Oliver gave him a wry smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I knew you couldn't kill him," he admitted. "Kill anything. And that ain't a bad thing, bud, so I arranged a Plan B. If I hadn't been able to get back in time, Barry would have helped you out with him."

Billy looked over at the Flash, who, to his knowledge, had never killed anyone in his life. He was consistently the kindest, calmest, most rational man in the League, and the surreality of the situation grew when Billy pictured Barry coming in for the death blow.

"Holy Moley. I'm so sorry for the trouble," he apologized, unable to meet Barry's eyes. "I should have been able to handle this on my own." He huffed an unhappy laugh. "It's not like I haven't killed before."

Barry stepped up to Billy, and looked him dead in the eyes. "You're really 18?" He asked, and Billy's mind stalled, not seeing the connection.

"I'll be 19 in April," he offered, trying to be helpful.

Barry shook his head. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "I cannot believe this. If Bruce were alive I'd ream him. What the hell was he thinking, letting you join the League?"

Billy opened his mouth to explain—yet again—the wisdom behind letting a magically-powered teenager join full adults in fighting crime, but Mr. Oliver shook his head at him sharply, and he shut his mouth.

"This damned plan," Barry continued, angrier than Billy thought the situation merited. "It shouldn't have teenagers striking death blows. I don't care how desperate we are!"

"The Waynelet is an assassin," Mr. Oliver pointed out. "Billy, in comparison, is an innocent lamb. Hence why we are here."

"But what about Gotham?" Billy asked, grasping at straws. "Isn't the army en route?"

"Not anymore," Barry muttered darkly, but it shook him from his stupor. "But I do have to get back. Shazam, can you get Ollie to . . .wherever Oracle needs him?"

"Of course," he said, feeling so spun around he wasn't entirely sure which way was up.

"Good," Barry muttered, and then he was gone.

Billy blinked.

"Sorry about the whole age thing. I had to tell him," Mr. Oliver said, face scrunching up apologetically. "It was the only way to get him away from Hal. I dunno what happened with the Stewart Ikon, but damn, I haven't seen passive aggression that icy since Hal dinged the Batmobile with the Javelin. Granted, most of Hal and Bruce's interaction could be described as 'fraught.' I remember this one time—"

Oliver's frenetic chatter overrode Billy's complete inability to deal with this situation. "I know, Mr. Oliver," he interrupted. "I was there for most of them. Also, you're babbling. Are you ok?"

Oliver glanced up at him, a blond eyebrow raising. "You're asking _me_ that?"

Billy frowned, determinedly. "Yes."

Oliver narrowed his eyes and matched him frown for frown. Finally, he sighed and admitted, "Nope. Not at fucking all. Still, there will be time for recovery later, or so I assume. We're four Ikons down and none of us have bit it yet, so . . ."

"So just one more?" Billy asked, enthused. His com hadn't been working for ages, ever since Bane had sent out some sort of magic pulse that had cut it. "Which one?"

There was a long exhalation before Oliver admitted, "Ra's al Ghul."

...

...

 **July 5th, 20xx**

 **Los Angeles, CA, 8:38 PM**

 **Day 16**

 _..._

 _I am not in over my head,_ Damian Wayne thought as he sailed through the air, launched backwards from the Ikon assuming his grandfather's persona's attack. Truly, he was not. Even though his plan was not yet set into place, his communication with Oracle had been completely blocked, and Slade Wilson had not answered any of his hails sent on secondary and then tertiary channels, he had the entire situation under control.

He did. He must. Otherwise, he was dead.

"Is this all I am to expect?" The Ikon gloated, wearing a look of disdain. "Your grandfather did not expect much of you, true, but I had wondered if he were wrong. Clearly, he was right to think so little of you . . . and your mother."

Damian grit his teeth as he bore himself up. Blood flavored his mouth, and bruises colored his flesh, to say nothing of the internal damage he suspected he was suffering, but the true destruction would be to his psyche, if he let himself be taken in by this alien's taunts.

Yet this was the first the Ikon had spoken, ever since Damian had engaged him. There was the possibility of using this moment, as well.

"He spoke of us?" Damian said, reaching back and behind him for his katana. His guns were lost quickly on, unfortunately, victims of the Ikon's magic in the first few minutes of their bout. He had kept from pulling his blade immediately, thinking it might go the same way.

Now, he had to give the Ikon something to focus on, and believe that Deathstroke would hold to his end of the bargain.

The Ikon bowed his head and smirked in a perfect parody of Ra's al Ghul's mannerisms. "All of our captives gave us exactly what we needed. None were able to keep their secrets. Their wishes, their thoughts, their _dreams_ were divined by us in very little time." He hesitated. "Barring the Thanagarian's unexpected suicide, only one was able to withstand us to any extent, and he was not of your blood. Ra's al Ghul thought very little of you, batling, along with your other 'brothers.' It was why we did not initially target any of you save Timothy Drake."

Damian hesitated. Something in his chest shuttered at the thought of his grandfather thinking him weak. Yet it was true that Grandfather had thought little of Grayson, and even less of Todd. Only Drake had been able to best him at his own game, and Grandfather had openly admitted that Drake was the worthiest heir to Bruce Wayne's empire, due to the strength of his cunning and intelligence, if not sheer fighting power.

But then why wouldn't they have targeted Father, if that were the case? From Black Canary's hidden recording, he knew that this Ikon had counselled not underestimating 'the Bat.' Why, then, did this Ikon lie? To hurt him?

It would not work.

" _Then I shall have to prove them wrong,_ " Damian hissed in his native tongue, angry enough to slip. It did not matter, not if Drake or Oracle were not monitoring his coms. He lunged forward, his heavy body moving swiftly over the cracked blacktop, dodging around parked or otherwise totalled cars, raising the blade just enough for a quick, stabbing strike—

The Ikon evaded the blow. Quicker than thought, it dodged and swung back around, clipping the back of Damian's head with enough force that for one horrifying moment, Damian thought he had punched the back of it clean off. He staggered down, but if he hit the ground he knew it would be over. The Ikon would finish him without mercy. So, nauseous and half-blinded from pain and disorientation, Damian raised his grapple gun with his off hand, and fired it blindly.

They were located in a business district, so it was something of a surprise when it caught on something and pulled him upward.

"Running away?" The Ikon taunted him. Damian could hardly hear him. He was moving upwards, slowly, far too slowly, but the Ikon did not press the advantage. Not until Damian reached the rooftop—his grapple had somehow found and wound around an air vent—and discovered he still had the ability to breathe did he realize why.

The Ikon was toying with him, as a cat would a mouse.

Hunched over on his knees, Damian spent a few precious moments trying to determine if he could re-engage. Concussed, certainly. Blinding headache and nausea, check. Hearing was dimmed like there were cotton balls in his ears, balance was laughable, strength fading. He smelled copper quite strongly, and wasn't sure if he was awash in blood, or his brain was more damaged than he feared.

His vision was the only thing he had going for him, and of what use was that when he was not enough at the best of times? He had not been strong enough to defeat the Ikon in the initial salvo, let alone when he was so damnably weak . . .

He was completely exhausted, and Damian closed his eyes. They flew open when a building nearby exploded. The dust and debris filling the air choked him, and the building beneath him rocked slightly. For a moment his injuries and his exhaustion threatened to drag him down unto unconsciousness. Painstakingly he stood, and realized he was being an idiot.

He was here to destroy the Ikon, and protect humanity. It did not matter if Slade did not come. It did not matter if Damian died in the doing of it. It did not matter if his life was ended in service of a city he does not like, and in defense of people who were little better than worms.

He was Damian Wayne, the son of the Bat. And he would not have his father be disappointed in him, in this life or the next.

Yet how to convince the Ikon to re-engage? He was too weak to go flying about the city to find him, and if the Ikon simply blew up the building he was standing on, he'd be a sitting duck. He'd have to antagonize him to recapture his attention, or play the wounded mother bird, trying to draw attention away from her chicks.

 _Concussed, surely,_ Damian managed to think. _If I making such analogies._

Then he picked up his voice and yelled, "Come and face me, Ikon!"

There was no response, although had Damian's ears been working at full capacity, they might have heard the slow, cautious opening of the door that led to the rooftop.

He would have to try again. "Too afraid to face a single human?" He yelled, and it felt as if blood was gurgling up his throat. He coughed it down and continued, "If you face me and win, there will be nothing left in this city of worth!"

 _Son of a swineherd, what was coming out of his mouth?_ Damian blinked hard, and tried to reorganize his thoughts. That wasn't what he'd meant to say. It wouldn't even be effective! He had to fight past this concussion, and be more coherent, and—

"The little earthworm thinks much of itself, I see," the Ikon jeered as he floated up over the building, over Damian's head, and then settled at the center of the building. He scoffed as he took in Damian's haggard appearance. "It will take little more than a stiff wind to knock you over. How disappointing."

"I may have a surprise or two up my sleeve," Damian said, stalling for time to accumulate the energy for one last, final thrust. A glint caught his eye, a flash of intense light that seemed to poke out from the side of the doghouse **,** but when he blinked it was gone.

"You are prepared to die for this," the Ikon noted. "It does not matter. You will still fail. Just as your other did. Just as your father did."

 _No,_ Damian thought, and a moment of incredible clarity settled over him. Like the stillness of winter descended upon him, he could see all. Every step he'd have to take, every angle of his upper body, the force he'd need to exert through his blade.

He moved. His feet kicked up loose stones and debris from the destroyed building as he raced forward, and his lungs burned as he inhaled. His arms raised, the angle perfect, the blade's tip keen to pierce flesh.

The Ikon shifted his center of gravity slightly lower, and smirked.

There was a flash of darkness behind the Ikon, of movement where there should only be stillness. Damian was so focused on her enemy that he did not understand what it could possibly be until the Ikon froze and choked, and then a sharp, steel blade thrust through its belly, protruding obscenely as the Ikon fell gasping to its knees.

Damian stumbled to a stop, swerving sideways at the last moment. The Ikon had been skewered from behind, and the man holding the blade—disconcertingly enough, in civilian wear—was none other than Slade Wilson.

"Not today, kid," Deathstroke says, and shot him with a strange looking handgun. A sonic-powered weapon, which had force enough to make Damian stumble back a few feet.

It allowed Damian a good look at the situation. The blade protruding from the Ikon's stomach was at least five inches clear of the wound, crimson blood dripping from the tip. The wound was mortal, but the Ikon would not die quietly.

"You will not win!" It shrieked, blood pouring from the wound, and a bright, terrible light blossoming around his body like a corona. "I will take you down with me! This is not the end!"

Magic hung in the air so thickly it prickled and settled over Damian's skin. That, coupled with his dying threat, was indicative. Damian spared one moment to look Wilson dead in the face—and while dressed in civilian clothes, there was no impediment to witness his expression—to see the resolve there. It was clear what his decision was—better to channel the magic into himself, to take all he could of Ra's attack, to protect others.

" _Go_ ," Wilson hissed, and shoved the blade in deeper.

 _Like Beowulf,_ Damian thought, and hurtled himself off the edge of the building, shooting out a grapple line as he did so.

The hook caught, the line stretched taut, his body snapping forward, away from the Ikon—

The Ikon detonated in a flash of brilliant light and a keening wail that shredded Damian's nerves. Something about its death throes shook him on a fundamental level. He had not seen any level of humanity from the Ikons thus far, that it should display some manner of pain now . . . he did not like it. He did not like it at all.

He braced himself to the effects of the magical bomb, but Wilson's sacrifice proved more effective than Damian hoped. There was a small ripple of power that swayed him off course, sending him towards a wide row of windows on an adjacent skyscraper. A quick glance showed him there were no other options to grapple towards. Damian turned his back to the glass, inhaled deeply, and braced himself for the collision.

He tore through the windows, sending a magnificent shower of shards to the floor, catching and reflecting the light as they fell. The few people still in the building—huddled beneath their desks, one or two making a bid for the stairwell—screamed. They scattered when he landed, however, running and screaming as he hit the ground hard, rolling to ease his fall.

"Robin!" Oracle's voice suddenly cut through the earpiece, after what felt like hours of radio silence. Not Drake, Oracle. That was important, but right now the world was spinning too dizzily for Damian to care.

" _Damian_ , can you hear me?" She said again, more loudly.

"Yes," he ground out. It was curious that he had the strength to answer her, but not to stand. All he felt like doing was to lay back on the floor and the spray of glass, staring at the flickering fluorescent lights and ceiling fans. It had to be the concussion, but all he could think about was Deathstroke's sacrifice. How had Wilson felt holding the blade, feeling the build up of magic between his palms? What had he thought of, when death was upon him?

Why on earth did he care now?

 _Shock,_ he decided. _I may be in shock. Also concussed. This, too._

"What about the Ikon?" Barbara continued. "Do you need back up? Are you injured?"

"No," he said, answering all her questions. "The Ikon is dead." He swallowed. "Deathstroke killed him."

"Oh thank _god,"_ she breathed. "That means they're all dead. Damian, they're all dead! It's over! It's _over."_

Damian stared up and out at the hole in the windows, the fractures marring the surrounding panes of glass. He remembered the Ikon's dying boast, and felt misgiving rise over him like a mist.

"No," he murmured. "This was only the beginning."

…

…

…

…

…

 **Excuse me while I go have a celebratory glass of wine for finishing Part 1. I have been writing this since February of 2015. God help me, and hopefully this will be wrapped up before another 3 years pass!**

…

 **Because it will be a long time before we get Hal Jordan's POV again, I would like to point out that in this (else)world, he had been a soldier before getting drafted by the Green Lanterns. He may feel very strongly about soldiers/the army, and in particular their chances in a fight against a super. This will be covered in more depth in Arc 3 and 4, but I didn't want his negative reaction to come too far out of left field.**

 **(Also, just to point out: by this point in the story, there has been a lot of superheroes killing people/aliens. Jason Todd and Damian Wayne have killed loads of people (Jason past, Damian in story, although Jason did kill one Ikon); Billy Batson (due to Ikon control) has as well; Barry Allen has killed 1 Ikon and who knows how many soldiers; Kon-El has been the death of many soldiers (although most, if not all, were trying to kamikaze kill him in their planes, and put themselves past the point of his being able to save them), Oliver Queen has killed 2 Ikons (and he for one is way proud of that); Slade Wilson has killed 1 Ikon; Roy Harper has killed 9+ people (on the assassination missions); Stephanie Brown has killed at least 1 assassin, Cassandra Cain has killed the rest (let's be real).**

 **This is a fairly large departure from what I remember of the DC continuity, and if death in a large scale bothers you, here is your belated warning: Arc 2 has a lot of villains dying, but Arc 3 and Arc 4 are much, much easier to deal with.)**

 **The only surviving/non-MIA people who have not explicitly killed someone/thing in this series are: Hal Jordan (and I am flipping amazed), Oracle, Wonder Woman and Aquaman (who are not really in this Arc), Raven (not in this arc much), John Constantine, Zatanna Zatara, Dick Grayson, Tim Hunter, Tim Drake.)**


End file.
